ILLUSTRATED 


LIBRARY 

tJWTVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVTS 


JJJ- 1 

II  \ 


ANNA  AND  THE  SQUIRE. 


Way  Down  East 

A  ROMANCE 
OF  NEW   ENGLAND  LIFE 


JOSEPH    <ft.    QRISWCER 

Founded  on  the  Phenomenally  Successful  Play  of  the 

Same  Title  by 
LOTTIE  3LAIR  BARKER 


Wew  York: 

f.    S.    OGILVIE    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
57  l^ose  Street 


Copyright,    1900 
By  Joseph    <%.    Crism&f 


'Way  Down  East 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE. 

ANNA  AND  THE  SQUIRE,  -  Frontispiece 

THE  MEETING  OF  DAVE  AND  ANNA,  -  65 

"MY  NAME  IS  ANNA  MOORE — I  AM  LOOKING  FOR 

WORK,"    -  -    82 

SAJNDERSON — "YOU'VE  GOT  TO  GO,"  -  "98 

"THERE  IS  THE  MAN  WHO  BETRAYED  ME,"  -  170 

SHE  OPENED  HER  EYES — SHE  WAS  NOT  DEAD,  -  176 

THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  OLD  SUGAR  SHED,    -  °  182 

THE  SQUIRE — "ANNA,  WE  WANT  YOU  TO  COME 

BACK  AND  BE  OUR  DAUGHTER,"   -     -   189 


WAY  DOWN  EAST 


CHAPTER  I. 

JILL  HAIL  TO  THE  CONQUERING  HERO. 

Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes. 

— Shakespeare* 

IT  had  come  at  last,  the  day  of  days,  for  the 
two  great  American  universities;  Harvard  and 
Yale  were  going  to  play  their  annual  game  of 
football  and  the  railroad  station  of  Springfield, 
Mass.,  momentarily  became  more  and  more 
thronged  with  eager  partisans  of  both  sid.es  of 
the  great  athletic  contest. 


4  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

All  the  morning  trains  from  New  York,  New 
Haven,  Boston  and  the  smaller  towns  had  been 
pouring  their  loads  into  Springfield.  Hampden 
Park  was  a  sea  of  eager  faces.  The  weather  was 
fine  and  the  waiting  for  the  football  game  only 
added  to  the  enjoyment — the  appetizer  before  the 
feast. 

The  north  side  of  the  park  was  a  crimson  dot 
ted  mass  full  ten  thousand  strong ;  the  south  side 
showed  the  same  goodly  number  blue-bespeckled, 
and  equally  confident.  Little  ripples  of  applause 
woke  along  the  banks  as  the  familiar  faces  of  old 
"grads"  loomed  up,  then  melted  into  the  vast 
throng.  These,  too,  were  men  of  international 
reputation  who  had  won  their  spurs  in  the  great 
battles  of  life,  and  yet,  wrho  came  back  year  after 
year,  to  assist  by  applause  in  these  mimic  battles 
of  their  Alma  Mater. 

But  the  real  inspiration  to  the  contestants, 
were  the  softer,  sweeter  faces  scattered  among 
the  more  rugged  ones  like  flowers  growing  among 
the  grain — the  smiles,  the  mantling  glow  of 
round  young  cheeks,  the  clapping  of  little  hands 
— these  were  the  things  that  made  broken  collar- 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  5 

bones,  scratched  faces,  and  bruised  limbs  but  so 
many  honors  to  be  contended  for,  votive  offerings 
,to  be  laid  at  the  little  feet  of  these  fair  ones. 

Mrs.  Standish  Tremont's  party  occupied,  as 
usual,  a  prominent  place  on  the  Harvard  side. 
She  was  so  great  a  factor  in  the  social  life  at 
Cambridge  that  no  function  could  have  been  a 
complete  success  without  the  stimulus  of  her 
presence.  Personally,  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont 
was  one  of  those  women  who  never  grow  old ;  one 
would  no  more  have  thought  of  hazarding  a  guess 
about  her  age  than  one  would  have  made  a  simi 
lar  calculation  about  the  Goddess  of  Liberty. 
She  was  perennially  young,  perennially  good- 
looking,  and  her  entertainments  were  above  re 
proach.  Some  sour  old  "Grannies"  in  Boston, 
who  had  neither  her  wit,  nor  her  health,  called 
her  Venus  Anno  Domino,  but  they  were  jealous 
and  cynical  and  their  testimony  cannot  be  taken 
as  reliable. 

What  if  she  had  been  splitting  gloves  applaud 
ing  college  games  since  the  father's  of  to-day 's( 
contestants  had  fought  and  struggled  for  simi 
lar  honors  in  this  very  field.  She  applauded  with 


6  WA¥    DOWN    EAST. 

such  vim,  and  she  gave  such  delightful  dinners 
afterward,  that  for  the  glory  of  old  Harvard  ft 
is  to  be  hoped  she  will  continue  to  applaud  and 
entertain  the  grandsons  of  to-day's  victors,  even 
as  she  had  their  sires. 

It  was  said  by  the  uncharitable  that  the  secret 
of  the  lady's  youth  was  the  fact  that  she  always 
surrounded  herself  with  young  people,  their 
pleasure,  interests,  entertainments  were  hers ;  she 
never  permitted  herself  to  be  identified  with  older 
people. 

To-day,  besides  several  young  men  who  had 
been  out  of  college  for  a  year  or  two,  she  had  her 
husband's  two  nieces,  the  Misses  Tremont,  young 
women  well  known  in  Boston's  inner  circles,  her 
own  daughter,  a  Mrs.  Endicott,  a  widow,  and  a 
very  beautiful  young  girl  whom  she  introduced  as 
"My  cousin,  Miss  Moore." 

Miss  Moore  was  the  recipient  of  more  attention 
than  she  could  well  handle.  Mrs.  Tremont's 
cavaliers  tried  to  inveigle  her  into  betting  gloves 
and  bon-bons ;  they  reserved  their  wittiest  replies 
for  her,  they  were  her  ardent  allies  in  all  the 
merry  badinage  with  which  their  party  whiled 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  J 

away  the  time  waiting  for  the  game  to  begin. 
Miss  Moore  was  getting  enough  attention  to  t^m 
the  heads  of  three  girls. 

At  least,  that  was  what  her  chaperone  con 
eluded  as  she  skilfully  concealed  her  dissatis 
faction  with  a  radiant  smile.  She  liked  girls  to 
achieve  social  success  when  they  were  under  her 
wing — it  was  the  next  best  thing  to  scoring  suc 
cess  on  her  own  account.  But,  it  was  quite  a  dif 
ferent  matter  to  invite  a  poor  relation  half  out 
of  charity,  half  out  of  pity,  and  then  have  her 
outshine  one's  own  daughter,  and  one's  nieces 
— the  latter  being  her  particular  proteges — girls 
whom  she  hoped  to  assist  toward  brilliant  estab 
lishments.  The  thought  was  a  disquieting  one, 
the  men  of  their  party  had  been  making  idiots  of 
themselves  over  the  girl  ever  since  they  left  Bos 
ton  ;  it  was  all  very  well  to  be  kind  to  one's  poor 
kin — but  charity  began  at  home  when  there  were 
girls  who  had  been  out  three  seasons !  What  waai 
it,  that  made  the  men  lose  their  heads  like  so 
many  sheep?  She  adjusted  her  lorgnette  and 
again  took  an  inventory  of  the  girl's  appearance. 
It  was  eminently  satisfactory,  even  when  viewed 


g  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

from  the  critical  standard  of  Mrs.  Standish  Tre- 
mont.  A  delicately  oval  face,  with  low  smooth 
brow,  from  which  the  night-black  hair  rippled  in 
softly  crested  waves  and  clung  about  the  temples 
in  tiny  circling  ringlets,  delicate  as  the  faintest 
shading  of  a  crayon  pencil.  Heavily  fringed  lids 
that  lent  mysterious  depths  to  the  great  brown 
eyes  that  were  sorrowful  beyond  their  years.  A 
mouth  made  for  kisses — a  perfect  Cupid's  bow; 
in  color,  the  red  of  the  pomegranate — such  was 
Anna  Moore,  the  great  lady's  young  kinswoman, 
who  was  getting  her  first  glimpse  of  the  world 
this  autumn  afternoon. 

"You  were  born  to  be  a  Harvard  girl,  Miss 
Moore,  the  crimson  becomes  you  so  perfectly; 
that  great  bunch  of  Jacqueminots  is  just  what 
you  need  to  bring  out  the  color  in  your  cheeks," 
said  Arnold  Lester,  rather  an  old  beau,  and  one 
of  Mrs.  Endicott's  devoted  cavaliers. 

"Miss  Moore  is  making  her  roses  pale  withi 
envy,"  gallantly  answered  Robert  Maynard.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  girl's 
face  since  he  met  her. 

Anna  looked  down  at  her  roses  and  smiled* 


WAT    DOWN    EAST.  $ 

Her  gown  and  gloves  were  black.  The  great  fra 
grant  bunch  was  the  only  suggestion  of  color  that 
she  had  worn  for  over  a  year.  She  was  still  in 
mourning  for  her  father,  one  of  the  first  great 
financial  magnates  to  go  under  in  the  last  Wall 
Street  crash.  His  failure  killed  him,  and  the 
young  daughter  and  the  invalid  wife  were  left 
practically  unprovided  for. 

Mrs.  Tremont  could  hardly  conceal  her  annoy 
ance.  She  had  met  her  young  cousin  for  the  first 
time  the  preceding  summer  and  taking  a  fancy 
to  her;  she  exacted  a  promise  from  the  girPs 
mother  that  Anna  should  pay  her  a  visit  the  fol 
lowing  autumn.  But  she  reckoned  without  the 
girl's  beauty  and  the  havoc  it  would  make  with 
her  plans.  The  discussion  as  to  the  roses  out- 
vieing  Anna's  cheeks  in  color  was  abruptly  termi 
nated  by  a  great  cheer  that  rolled  simultaneously 
along  both  sides  of  the  field  as  the  two  teams 
entered  the  lists.  Cheer  upon  cheer  went  up, 
swelled  and  grew  in  volume,  only  to  be  taken  up 
again  and  again,  till  the  sound  became  one  vast 
echoing  roar  without  apparent  end  or  beginning. 

From  the  moment  the  teams  appeared,  Anna 


IQ  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Moore  had  no  eyes  or  ears  for  sights  or  sounds 
about  her.  Every  muscle  in  her  lithe  young  body 
.was  strained  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  one  familiar 
figure.  She  had  little  difficulty  in  singling  him 
out  from  the  rest.  He  had  stripped  off  his 
sweater  and  stood  with  head  well  down,  his  great 
limbs  tense,  straining  for  the  word  to  spring. 
Anna's  breath  came  quickly,  as  if  she  had  been 
running,  the  roses  that  he  had  sent  her  heaved 
with  the  tumult  in  her  breast.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  must  cry  out  with  the  delight  of  seeing 
him  again. 

"Look,  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont,  to 
the  younger  of  her  nieces,  "there  is  Lennox  San 
derson." 

"Play !"  called  the  referee,  and  at  the  word  the 
Harvard  wedge  shot  forward  and  crashed  into 
the  onrushing  mass  of  blue-legged  bodies.  The 
mimic  war  was  on,  and  raged  with  all  the  excite 
ment  of  real  battle  for  the  next  three-quarters  of 
an  hour;  the  center  was  pierced,  the  flanks  were 
turned,  columns  were  formed  and  broken,  weak 
spots  were  protected,  all  the  tactics  of  the  science 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  H' 

of  arms  was  employed,  and  yet,  neither  side  could 
gain  an  advantage. 

.  The  last  minutes  of  the  first  half  of  the  gam^ 
were  spent  desperately — Kenneth,  the  terrible 
line  breaker  of  Yale,  made  two  famous  charges, 
Lennox  Sanderson,  the  famous  flying  half-back, 
secured  Harvard  a  temporary  advantage  by  a 
magnificently  supported  run.  "Time !"  called  the 
referee,  and  the  first  half  of  the  game  was  over. 

For  fifteen  minutes  the  combatants  rested,  then 
resumed  their  massing,  wedging  and  driving. 
Sanderson,  who  had  not  appeared  to  over-exert 
himself  during  the  first  half  of  the  game,  gradu 
ally  began  to  turn  the  tide  in  favor  of  the  crim 
son.  After  a  decoy  and  a  scrimmage,  Sanderson, 
with  the  ball  wedged  tightly  under  one  arm,  was 
seen  flying  like  a  meteor,  well  covered  by  his  sup 
ports.  On  he  dashed  at  full  speed  for  the  much- 
desired  touch-line.  The  next  minute  he  had 
reached  the  goal  and  was  buried  under  a  pile  of 
squirming  bodies. 

Then  did  the  Harvard  hosts  burst  into  one 
mighty  and  prolonged  cheer  that  made  the  air 
tremble.  Sanderson  was  the  hero  of  the  hour. 


±%  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Gray-haired  old  men  jumped  up  and  shouted  his 
name  with  that  of  the  university.  It  was  one 
jmad  pandemonium  of  excitement,  till  the  game 
was  won,  and  the  crowd  woke  up  amid  the 
"Rah,  Rahs,  Harvard,  Sanderson." 

Anna's  cheeks  burned  crimson.  She  clapped 
her  hands  to  the  final  destruction  of  her  gloves. 
She  patted  the  roses  he  had  sent  her.  She  had 
never  dreamed  that  life  was  so  beautiful,  so  full 
of  happiness. 

She  saw  him  again  for  just  a  moment,  before 
they  left  the  park.  He  came  up  to  speak  to  them, 
with  the  sweat  and  grime  of  battle  still  upon 
him,  his  hair  flying  in  the  breeze.  The  crowds 
gave  way  for  the  hero;  women  gave  him  their 
brightest  smiles;  men  involuntarily  straightened 
their  shoulders  in  tribtue  to  his  inches. 

Years  afterwards,  it  seemed  to  Anna,  in  look 
ing  back  on  the  tragedy  of  it  all,  that  he  had 
never  looked  so  handsome,  never  been  so  abso 
lutely  irresistible  as  on  that  autumn  day  when 
he  had  taken  her  hand  and  said :  "I  couldn't  help 
making  that  run  with  your  eyes  on  me." 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  \$ 

"And  we  shall  see  you  at  tea,  on  Saturday?" 
asked  Mrs.  Tremont. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  answered :  "thank  you 
for  persuading  Miss  Moore  to  stay  over  for  an 
other  week."  Mrs.  Tremont  smiled,  she  could 
smile  if  she  were  on  the  rack;  but  she  assured 
herself  that  she  was  done  with  poverty-stricken 
beauties  till  Grace  and  Maud  were  married,  at 
least.  For  years  she  had  been  planning  a  match 
between  Grace  and  Lennox  Sanderson. 

Anna  and  Sanderson  exchanged  looks.  Robert 
Maynard  bit  his  lips  and  turned  away.  He  real 
ized  that  the  dearest  wish  of  his  life  was  beyond 
reach  of  it  forever.  "Ah,  well,"  he  murmured  to 
himself — "who  could  have  a  chance  against  Len 
nox  Sanderson?" 


DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  II. 

j.'HE  CONQUERING  HERO  IS  DISPOSED  TO  BE  HUMAN. 

"Her  lips  are  roses  over-wash'd  with  dew, 
Or  like  the  purple  of  narcissus'  flower ; 
No  frost  their  fair,  no  wind  doth  waste  their 

powers, 

But  by  her  breath  her  beauties  do  renew." 

— Robert  Greene. 

THE  dusk  of  an  autumn  afternoon  was  closing 
in  on  the  well-filled  library  of  Mrs.  Standish  Tre- 
mont's  Beacon  street  home.  The  last  rays  of  sun 
light  filtered  softly  through  the  rose  silk  curtains 
and  blended  with  the  ruddy  glow  of  fire-light. 
The  atmosphere  of  this  room  was  more  invitingly 
domestic  than  that  of  any  other  room  in  Mrs. 
Tremont's  somewhat  bleakly  luxurious  home. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  row  upon  row  of  books  in 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  15 

their  scarlet  leather  bindings,  perhaps  it  was  the 
fine  old  collection  of  Dutch  masterpieces,  por 
traying  homely  scenes  from  Dutch  life,  that 
•robbed  the  air  of  the  chilling  effect  of  the  more 
formal  rooms;  but,  whatever  was  the  reason,  the 
fact  remained  that  the  library  was  the  room  in 
which  to  dream  dreams,  appreciate  comfort  and 
be  content. 

At  least  so  it  seemed  to  Anna  Moore,  as  she 
glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  tiny  French 
clock  that  silently  ticked  away  the  hours  on  the 
high  oaken  mantel-piece.  Anna  had  dressed  for 
tea  with  more  than  usual  care  on  this  particular 
Saturday  afternoon.  She  wore  a  simply  made 
house  gown  of  heavy  white  cloth,  that  hung  in 
rkh  folds  about  her  exquisite  figure,  that  might 
fcave  seemed  over-developed  in  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
were  it  not  for  the  long  slender  throat  and  taper 
ing  waist  of  more  than  usual  slenderness. 

The  dark  hair  was  coiled  high  on  top  of  the 
shapely  head,  and  a  few  tendrils  strayed  about 
her  neck  and  brow.  She  wore  no  ornaments — 
not  even  the  simplest  pin. 

She  was  curled  up  in  a  great  leather  chair,  in 


Ig  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

front  of  the  open  fire,  playing  with  a  white  angora 
kitten,  who  climbed  upon  her  shoulder  and  gen 
erally  conducted  himself  like  a  white  ball  of  ani 
mated  yarn.  It  was  too  bad  that  there  was  no 
painter  at  hand  to  transfer  to  canvas  so  lovely  a 
picture  as  this  girl  in  her  white  frock  made,  sit 
ting  by  the  firelight  in  this  mellow  old  room,  play 
ing  with  a  white  imp  of  a  kitten.  It  would  have 
made  an  ideal  study  in  white  and  scarlet. 

How  comfortable  it  all  was;  the  book-lined 
walls,  the  repose  and  dignity  of  this  beautiful 
home,  with  its  corps  of  well-trained  servants 
waiting  to  minister  to  one's  lightest  wants.  The 
secure  and  sheltered  feeling  that  it  gave  appealed 
strongly  to  the  girl,  who  but  a  little  while  ago 
had  enjoyed  similar  surroundings  in  her  father's 
house. 

And  then,  there  had  been  that  awful  day  when 
her  father's  wealth  had  vanished  into  air  like  a 
burst  bubble,  and  he  had  come  home  with  a  white 
drawn  face  and  gone  to  bed,  never  again  to  rise 
from  it. 

Anna  did  not  mind  the  privations  that  followed 
OB  her  own  account,  but  they  were  pitifully  hard 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  ^ 

on  her  invalid  mother,  who  had  been  used  to 
every  comfort  all  her  life. 

After  they  had  left  New  York,  they  had  taken 
a  little  cottage  in  Waltham,  Mass.,  and  it  was 
here  that  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont  had  come  to  call 
on  her  relatives  in  their  grief  and  do  what  she 
could  toward  lightening  their  burdens,  Anna 
was  worn  out  with  the  constant  care  of  her 
mother,  and  would  only  consent  to  go  away  for 
a  rest,  because  the  doctor  told  her  that  her  health 
was  surely  breaking  under  the  strain,  and  that 
if  she  did  not  go,  there  would  be  two  invalids  in 
stead  of  one. 

It  was  at  Mrs.  Tremont's  that  she  had  met  Len 
nox  Sanderson,  and  from  the  first,  both  seemed 
to  be  under  the  influence  of  some  subtle  spell  that 
dflew  them  together  blindly,  and  without  the  con 
sent  of  their  wills.  Mrs.  Tremont,  who  viewed 
the  growing  attraction  of  these  two  young  people 
with  well-concealed  alarm,  watched  every  oppor 
tunity  to  prevent  their  enjoying  each  other's  soci 
ety.  It  irritated  her  that  one  of  the  wealthiest 
and  most  influential  men  in  Harvard  should  take 
such  a  fancy  to  her  penniless  young  relative,  in- 


18  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

stead  of  to  Grace  Tremont,  whom  she  had  selected 
for  his  wife. 

There  were  few  things  that  Mrs.  Tremont  en 
joyed  so  much  as  arranging  romances  in  every 
day  life. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Moore,"  said  the  butler, 
standing  at  her  elbow,  "but  there  has  been  a  tele 
phone  message  from  Mrs.  Tremont,  saying  that 
she  and  Mrs.  Endicott  have  been  detained,  and 
will  you  be  kind  enough  to  explain  this  to  Mr. 
Sanderson."  Anna  never  knew  what  the  mes 
sage  cost  Mrs.  Tremont. 

A  moment  later,  Sanderson's  card  was  sent  up ; 
Anna  rose  to  meet  him  with  swiftly  beating 
heart. 

"What  perfect  luck,"  he  said.  "How  do  I  hap 
pen  to  find  you  alone?  Usually  you  have  a  regi- 
rtent  of  people  about  you." 

'Cousin  Frances  has  just  telephoned  that  she 
has  been  detained,  and  I  suppose  I  am  to  enter 
tain  you  till  her  return." 

*I  shall  be  sufficiently  entertained  if  I  may 
have  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  you." 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  1§ 

"Till  dinner  time?  You  could  never  stand  it." 
She  laughed. 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure  till  eternity." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Anna,  "I  am  not  going  to 
put  you  to  the  test.  If  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  ring  for  tea,  I  will  give  you  a  cup." 

The  butler  brought  in  the  tea.  Anna  lighted 
the  spirit  lamp  with  pretty  deftness,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  make  tea. 

"I  could  not  have  taken  this,  even  from  your 
hands  last  week,  Anna — pardon  me,  Miss 
Moore." 

"And  why  not?  Had  you  been  taking  pledges 
not  to  drink  tea?" 

"It  seems  to  me  as  if  Fve  been  living  on  rare 
beef  and  whole  wheat  bread  ever  since  I  can  re 
member " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  about  your  being  in  training 
for  the  game,  but  you  did  so  magnificently,  you 
ought  not  to  mind  it.  Why,  you  made  Harvard 
win  the  game.  We  were  all  so  proud  of  you." 

"All !  I  don't  care  about  'all.'  Were  you  proud 
of  me?" 


£0  WAY    B6WN    EAST. 

"Of  course  I  was,"  she  answered  with  the  live 
liest  blush. 

"Then  it  is  amply  repaid." 
"Let  me  give  you  another  cup  of  tea." 
"No,  thanks,  I  don't  care  about  any  more,  but 
if  you  will  let  me  talk  to  you  about  something — 
See  here,  Anna.  Yes,  I  mean  Anna.  What  non 
sense  for  us  to  attempt  to  keep  up  the  Miss  Moore 
and  Mr.  Sanderson  business.  I  used  to  scoff  at 
love  at  first  sight  and  say  it  was  all  the  idle  fancy 
of  the  poets.  Then  I  met  you  and  remained  to 
pray.  You've  turned  my  world  topsy-turvy.  I 
can't  think  without  you,  and  yet  it  would  be  folly 
to  tell  this  to  my  Governor,  and  ask  his  consent 
to  our  marriage.  He  wants  me  to  finish  college, 
take  the  usual  trip  around  the  world  and  then 
go  into  the  firm.  Besides,  he  wants  me  to  eventu 
ally  marry  a  cousin  of  mine — a  girl  with  a  lot  of 
money  and  with  about  as  much  heart  as  wrould 
fit  on  the  end  of  a  pin." 

She  had  followed  this  speech  with  almost  pain 
ful  attention.  She  bit  her  lips  till  they  were  but 
a  compressed  line  of  coral.  At  last  she  found 
words  to  say : 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  %\ 

"We  must  not  talk  of  these  things,  Mr.  San 
derson.  I  have  to  go  back  and  care  for  my  mother. 
She  is  an  invalid  and  needs  all  my  attention.  Be- 
>sides,  we  are  poor ;  desperately  poor.  I  am  here 
in  your  world,  only  through  the  kindness  of  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Tremont." 

"It  was  your  world  till  a  year  ago,  Anna.  I 
know  all  about  your  father's  failure,  and  how 
nobly  you  have  done  your  part  since  then,  and  it 
kills  me  to  think  of  you,  who  ought  to  have  every 
thing,  spending  your  life — your  youth — in  that 
stupid  little  Waltham,  doing  the  work  of  a  house 
maid." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  do  my  part,"  she  answered 
him  bravely,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  unshed 
tears. 

"Anna,  dearest,  listen  to  me."  He  crossed  over 
to  where  she  sat  and  took  her  hand.  "Can't  you 
have  a  little  faith  in  me  and  do  what  I  am  going 
Jto  ask  you?  There  is  the  situtaion  exactly.  My 
father  won't  consent  to  our  marriage,  so  there  is 
no  use  trying  to  persuade  him.  And  here  you 
are — a  little  girl  who  needs  some  one  to  take  care 
of  you  and  help  you  take  care  of  your  mother, 


22  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

give  her  all  the  things  that  mean  so  much  to  an 
invalid.  Now,  all  this  can  be  done,  darling,  if 
you  will  only  have  faith  in  me.  Marry  me  now 
secretly,  before  you  go  back  to  Waltham.  No 
one  need  know.  And  then  the  governor  can  be 
talked  around  in  time.  My  allowance  will  be 
ample  to  give  you  and  your  mother  all  you  need. 
Can't  you  see,  darling?" 

The  color  faded  from  her  cheeks.  She  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  as  startled  as  a  surprised  fawn. 

"O,  Lennox,  I  would  be  afraid  to  do  that." 

"You  would  not  be  afraid,  Anna,  if  you  loved 
me." 

It  was  so  tempting  to  the  weary  young  soul, 
who  had  already  begun  to  sink  under  the  accumu 
lated  burdens  of  the  past  year,  not  for  herself,  but 
for  the  sick  mother,  who  complained  unceasingly 
of  the  changed  conditions  of  their  lives.  The  care 
and  attention  would  mean  so  much  to  her — and 
yet,  what  right  had  she  to  encourage  this  man  to 
go  against  the  wishes  of  his  father,  to  take  advan 
tage  of  his  love  for  her?  But  she  was  grateful  to' 
him,  and  there  was  a  wealth  of  tenderness  in  the 
eyes  that  she  turned  toward  him. 


.WAY    DOWN    EAST.  2$ 

"No,  Lennox,  I  appreciate  your  generosity,  but 
I  do  not  think  it  would  be  wise  for  either  of  us." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  generosity.  Good  God, 
Anna,  can't  you  realize  what  this  separation 
means  to  me?  I  have  no  heart  to  go  on  with  my 
life  away  from  you.  If  you  are  going  to  throw  me 
over,  I  shall  cut  college  and  go  away." 

She  loved  him  all  the  better  for  his  impatience. 

"Anna,"  he  said — the  two  dark  heads  were 
close  together,  the  madness  of  the  impulse  was 
too  much  for  both.  Their  lips  met  in  a  first  long 
kiss.  The  man  was  to  have  his  way.  The  kiss 
proved  a  more  eloquent  argument  than  all  his 
pleading. 

"Say  you  will,  Anna." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

And  then  they  heard  the  street  door  open  and 
close,  and  the  voices  of  Mrs.  Tremont  and  her 
daughter,  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  library. 
And  the  two  young  souls,  who  hovered  on  the 
brink  of  heaven,  were  obliged  to  listen  to  the 
latest  gossip  of  fashionable  Boston. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

CONTAINING  SOME  REFLECTIONS  AND  THE  ENTRANTS 
OF  MEPHISTOPHELES. 

"Not  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffined  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  horrid  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a^erime." 

— Byron. 

LENNOX  SANDERSON  was  stretched  in  his  win 
dow-seat  with  a  book,  of  which,  however,  he  knew 
nothing — not  even  the  title — his  niind  being  occu 
pied  by  other  thoughts  than  reading  at  that  par 
ticular  time. 

Did  he  dare  do  it?  The  audacity  of  the  pro 
ceeding  was  sufficient  to  make  the  iron  will  of 
even  Lennox  Sanderson  waver.  And  yet,  to  lose 
her !  Such  a  contingency  was  not  to  be  consid 
ered.  His  mind  flew  backward  and  forward  like 


WAY     DOWN     EAST.  25 

a  shuttle,  he  turned  the  leaves  of  his  book;  he 
smoked,  but  no  light  came  from  within  or  with 
out. 

He  glanced  about  the  familiar  objects  in  his 
sitting-room  as  one  unconsciously  does  when  the 
mind  is  on  the  rack  of  anxiety,  as  if  to  seek  coun 
cil  from  the  mute  things  that  make  up  so  large  a 
part  of  our  daily  lives. 

It  was  an  ideal  sitting-room  for  a  college  stu 
dent,  the  luxury  of  the  appointments  absolutely 
subservient  to  taste  and  simplicity.  Heavy  red 
curtains  divided  the  sitting-room  from  the  bed 
room  beyond,  and  imparted  a  degree  of  genial 
warmth  to  the  atmosphere.  Russian  candlesticks 
of  highly  polished  brass  stood  about  on  the  man 
tel-piece  and  book  shelves.  Above  the  high  oak 
wainscoting  the  walls  were  covered  with  dark 
red  paper,  against  which  background  brown  pho 
tographs  of  famous  paintings  showed  to  excellent 
advantage.  They  were  reproductions  of  Botti 
celli,  Eembrant,  Franz  Hals  and  Velasquez 
hung  with  artistic  irregularity.  Above  the  man 
tel-piece  were  curious  old  weapons,  swords, 
matchetes,  flintlocks  and  carbines.  A  helmet  and 


gg  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

breastplate  filled  the  space  between  the  two  win 
dows.  Some  dozen  or  more  of  pipe  racks  held  the 
young  collegian's  famous  collection  of  pipes  that 
told  the  history  of  smoking  from  the  introduction 
during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  down  to  the  pres 
ent  day. 

In  taking  a  mental  inventory  of  his  household 
goods,  Sanderson's  eyes  fell  on  the  photograph  of 
a  woman  on  the  mantel-piece.  He  frowned.  What 
right  had  she  there,  when  his  mind  was  full  of 
another?  He  walked  over  to  the  picture  and 
threw  it  into  the  fire.  It  was  not  the  first  picture 
to  know  a  similar  fate  after  occupying  that  place 
of  honor. 

The  blackened  edges  of  the  picture  were  whirl 
ing  up  the  chimney,  when  Sanderson's  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  knock. 

"Come  in,"  he  called,  and  a  young  man  of  about 
his  own  age  entered.  Without  being  in  the  least 
ill-looking,  there  was  something  repellent  about 
the  new  comer.  His  eyes  were  shifty  and  too 
close  together  to  be  trustworthy.  Otherwise  no 
fault  could  be  found  with  his  appearance. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  %fl 

"Well,  Langdon,  how  are  you?"  his  host  askedf 
but  there  was  no  warmth  in  his  greeting. 

"As  well  as  a  poor  devil  like  me  ever  is,"  began 
Langdon  obsequiously.  He  sighed,  looked  about 
the  comfortable  room  an(l  finished  with :  "Lucky 
dog." 

Sanderson  stood  on  no  ceremony  with  his 
guest,  who  was  a  thoroughly  unscrupulous  young 
man.  Once  or  twice  Langdon  had  helped  Sander 
son  out  of  scrapes  that  would  have  sent  him  home 
from  college  without  his  degree,  had  they  come  to 
the  ears  of  the  faculty.  In  return  for  this  assist 
ance,  Sanderson  had  lent  him  large  sums  of 
money,  which  the  owner  entertained  no  hopes  of 
recovering.  Sanderson  tried  to  balance  matters 
by  treating  Langdon  with  scant  ceremony  when 
they  were  alone. 

"Well,  old  man,"  began  his  host,  "I  do  not  flat 
ter  myself  that  I  owe  this  call  to  any  personal 
charm.  You  dropped  in  to  ease  a  little  financial 
embarrassment  by  the  request  of  a  loan — am  I 
not  right?" 

"Right,  as  usual,  Sandy,  though  I'd  hardly  call 
it  a  loan.  You  know  I  was  put  to  a  devil  of  a 


23  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

lot  of  trouble  about  that  Newton  affair,  and  it 
cost  money  to  secure  a  shut  mouth." 
•  Sanderson  frowned.  "This  is  the  fifth  time  I 
1  have  had  the  pleasure  of  settling  for  that  Newton 
affair,  Langdon.  It  seems  to  have  become  a  sort 
of  continuous  performance." 

Langdon  winced. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Langdon.  You  owe 
me  two  thousand  now,  not  counting  that  poker 
debt.  We'll  call  it  square  if  you'll  attend  to  a 
little  matter  for  me  and  I'll  give  you  an  extra 
thou.  to  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"You  know  I  am  always  delighted  to  help  you, 
Sandy." 

"When  I  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  wish." 

"Do  you  think  that  for  once  in  your  life  you 
could  look  less  like  the  devil  than  you  are  natur 
ally,  and  act  the  role  of  parson?" 

"I  might  if  I  associate  with  you  long  enough. 
Saintly  company  might  change  my  expression." 

"You  won't  have  time  to  try.  You've  got  to 
have  your  clerical  look  in  good  working  order  by 
Friday.  Incidently  you  are  to  marry  me  to  the 


WAY    DOWN    BAST.  2Q) 

prettiest  girl  in  Massachusetts  and  keep  your 
mouth  closed." 

As  if  to  end  the  discussion,  Sanderson  strode 
over  to  his  desk  and  wrote  out  a  check  for  a  thou 
sand  dollars.  He  came  back,  waving  it  in  the  air 
to  dry  the  ink. 

"Perhaps  you  will  condescend  to  explain," 
Langdon  said,  as  he  pocketed  the  check. 

"Explanations  are  always  bores,  my  dear  boy. 
There  is  a  little  girl  who  feels  obliged  to  insist  on 
formalities,  not  too  many.  She'll  think  your  act 
ing  as  the  parson  the  best  joke  in  the  world,  but 
it  would  not  do  to  chaff  her  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  and  Langdon's  laugh  was  not 
pleasant. 

"Exactly.  You  will  have  everything  ready — 
white  choker,  black  coat  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and 
now,  my  dear  boy,  you've  got  to  excuse  me  as  I've 
got  a  lot  of  work  on  hand." 

They  shook  hands  and  Langdon's  footstepf 
were  soon  echoing  down  the  corridor. 

The  foul  insinuation  that  Sanderson  had  just 
made  about  Anna  rankled  in  his  mind.  He  went 
to  the  sideboard  and  poured  himself  out  a  good 


30  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

stiff  drink.  After  that,  his  conscience  did  not 
trouble  him. 

The  work  on  account  of  which  he  excused  him 
self  from  Langdon's  society,  was  apparently  not 
of  the  most  pressing  order,  for  Sanderson  almost 
immediately  started  for  Boston,  turning  his  steps 
towards  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont's. 

"Mrs.  Tremont  was  not  at  home,"  the  man  an 
nounced  at  the  door,  "and  Mrs.  Endicott  was  con 
fined  to  her  room  with  a  bad  headache.  Should 
he  take  his  card  to  Miss  Moore?" 

Sanderson  assented,  feeling  that  fate  was  with 
him. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  as  Anna  came  in  a  mo 
ment  later,  and  folded  her  close  in  a  long  embrace. 
She  was  paler  than  when  he  had  last  seen  her 
and  there  were  dark  rings  under  her  eyes  that 
hinted  at  long  night  vigils. 

"Lennox,"  she  said,  "do  not  think  me  weak,  but 
I  am  terribly  frightened.  It  does  not  seem  as  if 
we  were  doing  the  right  thing  by  our  friends." 

"Goosey  girl,"  he  said,  kissing  her,  "who  was 
it  that  said  no  marriage  ever  suited  all  parties 
unconcerned?" 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  31 

She  laughed.  "I  am  thinking  more  of  you  Len 
nox,  than  of  myself.  Suppose  your  father  should 
,not  forgive  you,  cut  you  off  without  a  cent,  and 
you  should  have  to  drudge  all  your  life  with 
mother  and  me  on  your  hands !  Don't  you  think 
you  would  wish  we  had  never  met,  or,  at  least, 
that  I  had  thought  of  these  things?" 

"Suppose  the  sky  should  fall,  or  the  sun  snould 
go  out,  or  that  I  could  stop  loving  you,  or  any  of 
the  impossible  things  that  could  not  happen  once 
in  a  million  years.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  your 
self  to  doubt  me  in  this  way?  Answer  me,  miss/' 
he  said  with  mock  ferocity. 

For  answer  she  laid  her  cheek  against  his. — "1 
am  so  happy,  dear,  that  I  am  almost  afraid." 

He  pressed  her  tenderly.  "And  now,  darling^ 
for  the  conspiracy — Cupid's  conspiracy.  You 
write  to  your  mother  to-night  and  say  that  you 
will  be  home  on  Wednesday  because  you  will. 
Then  tell  Mrs.  Tremont  that  you  have  had  a  wire 
from  her  saying  you  must  go  home  Friday  (I'll 
see  that  you  do  receive  such  a  telegram),  and 
leave  Friday  morning  by  the  9:40.  I  will  keep 
out  of  the  way,  because  the  entire  Tremont  con- 


$2  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

tingent  will  doubtless  see  you  off.  I  will  then 
meet  you  at  one  of  the  stations  near  Boston.  I 
can't  tell  you  which,  till  I  hear  from  my  friend, 
the  Reverend  John  Langdon.  He  will  have  every 
thing  arranged." 

She  looked  at  him  with  dilating  eyes,  her  cheeks 
blanched  with  fear. 

"Anna,"  he  said,  almost  roughly,  "if  you  have 
no  confidence  in  me,  I  will  go  out  of  your  life 
forever." 

"Yes>  yes,  I  believe  in  you,"  she  said.  "It  isn't 
that,  but  it  is  the  first  thing  I  have  ever  kept 
from  mother,  and  I  would  feel  so  much  more  com 
fortable  if  she  knew." 

"Baby.  An'  so  de  ittle  baby  must  tell  its  muv- 
ver  ev'yting,"  he  mimicked  her,  till  she  felt 
ashamed  of  her  good  impulse — am  impulse  which 
if  she  had  yielded  to,  it  would  have  saved  her 
from  all  the  bitterness  she  was  to  know. 

"And  so  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  darling?'* 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  promise?" 

"Yes,"  and  they  sealed  the  bargain  with  a  kiss. 

"Dearest,  I  must  be  going.    It  would  never  do 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  3$ 

for  Mrs.  Tremont  to  see  us  together.  I  should 
forget  and  call  you  pet  names,  and  then  you 
would  be  sent  supperless  to  bed,  like  the  little 
girls  in  the  st®ry  books," 

"I  suppose  you  must  go,"  she  said,  regretfully. 

"It  will  not  be  for  long,"  and  with  another  kiss 
he  left  her. 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  MOCK  MARRIAGE. 

"Thus  grief  still  treads  upon  the  heel  of  pleasure, 
Married  in  haste,  we  may  repent  at  leisure." 

— Congreve. 

IT  seemed  to  Anna  when  Friday  came,  that 
human  experience  had  nothing  further  to  offer 
in  the  way  of  mental  anguish  and  suspense.  She 
had  thrashed  out  the  question  of  her  secret  mar 
riage  to  Sanderson  till  her  brain  refused  to  work 
further,  and  there  was  in  her  mind  only  dread 
and  a  haunting  sense  of  loss.  If  she  had  only 
herself  to  consider,  she  would  not  have  hesitated 
a  moment.  But  Sanderson,  his  father,  and  her 
own  mother  were  all  involved.  , 

Was  she  doing  right  by  her  mother?  At  times, 
the  advantage  to  the  invalid  accruing  from  this 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  35 

marriage  seemed  manifold.  Again  it  seemed  to 
Anna  but  a  senseless  piece  of  folly,  prompted  by 
her  own  selfish  love  for  Sanderson.  And  so  the 
days  wore  on  until  the  eventful  Friday  came,  and 
Anna  said  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont 
with  livid  cheeks  and  tearful  eyes. 

"And  do  you  feel  so  badly  about  going  away, 
my  dear?"  said  the  great  lady,  looking  at  those 
visible  signs  of  distress  and  feeling  not  a  little 
flattered  by  her  young  cousin's  show  of  affection. 
"We  must  have  you  down  soon  again,"  and  she 
patted  Anna's  cheek  and  hurried  her  into  the  car, 
for  Mrs.  Tremont  had  a  horror  of  scenes  and  sig 
nals  warned  her  that  Anna  was  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

The  locomotive  whistled,  the  cars  gave  a  jolt, 
and  Anna  Moore  was  launched  on  her  tragic  fate. 
She  never  knew  how  the  time  passed  after  leaving 
Mrs.  Tremont,  till  Sanderson  joined  her  at  the 
next  station.  She  felt  as  if  her  will  power  had 
deserted  her,  and  she  was  dumbly  obeying  the 
behests  of  some  unseen  relentless  force.  She] 
looked  at  the  strange  faces  about  her,  hopelessly. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  too  late — perhaps  some  kind 


86  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

motherly  woman  would  tell  her  if  she  were  doing 
right  But  they  all  looked  so  strange  and  forbid 
ding,  and  while  she  turned  the  question  over  and 
over  in  her  mind,  the  car  stopped,  the  brakeman 
called  the  station  and  Lennox  Sanderson  got  on. 

She  turned  to  him  in  her  utter  perplexity,  for 
getting  he  was  the  cause  of  it. 

"My  darling,  how  pale  you  are.    Are  you  ill?" 

"Not  ill,  but "  He  would  not  let  her  finish, 

but  reassured  her  by  the  tenderest  of  looks,  the 
warmest  of  hand  clasps,  and  the  terrified  girl  be 
gan  to  lose  the  hunted  feeling  that  she  had. 

They  rode  on  for  fully  an  hour.  Sanderson 
was  perfectly  self-possessed.  He  might  have  been 
married  every  day  in  the  year,  for  any  difference 
it  made  in  his  demeanor.  He  was  perfectly  com 
posed,  laughed  and  chatted  as  wittily  as  ever.  In 
time,  Anna  partook  of  his  mood  and  laughed 
back.  She  felt  as  if  a  weight  had  been  lifted  off 
her  mind.  At  last  they  stopped  at  a  little  station 
called  Whiteford,  An  old-fashioned  carriage  was 
waiting  for  them;  they  entered  it  and  the  driver 
whipped  up  his  horses.  A  drive  of  a  half  mild 
brougkt  tkem  t®  an  ideal  white  cottage,  surround* 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  g'f 

ed  by  porches  and  hidden  in  a  tangle  of  vines. 
The  door  was  opened  for  them  by  the  Rev.  John 
Langdon  in  person.  He  seemed  a  preter- 
'naturally  grave  young  man  to  Anna  and  his  cleri 
cal  attire  was  above  reproach.  Any  misgivings 
one  might  have  had  regarding  him  on  the  score 
of  his  youth,  were  more  than  counterbalanced  by 
his  almost  supernatural  gravity. 

He  apologized  for  the  absence  of  his  wife,  say 
ing  she  had  been  called  away  suddenly,  owing  to 
the  illness  of  her  mother.  His  housekeeper  and 
gardener  would  act  as  witnesses.  Sanderson 
hastily  took  Anna  to  one  side  and  said :  "I  forgot 
to  tell  you,  darling,  that  I  am  going  to  be  mar 
ried  by  my  two  first  names  only,  George  Lennox. 
It  is  just  the  same,  but  if  the  Sanderson  got  into 
any  of  those  country  marriage  license  papers,  I 
should  be  afraid  the  governor  would  hear  of  it- 
penalty  of  having  a  great  name,  you  know,"  he 
concluded  gayly.  "Thought  I  had  better  men 
tion  it,  as  it  would  not  do  to  have  you  surprised 
over  your  husband's  name." 

Again  the  feeling  of  dread  completely  over 
powered  her.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  great 


38  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

sorrowful  eyes,  as  a  trapped  animal  will  some* 
times  look  at  its  captor,  but  she  could  not  speak. 
Some  terrible  blight  seemed  to  have  overgrows 
her  brain,  depriving  her  of  speech  and  will 
power. 

The  witnesses  entered.  Anna  was  too  agitated 
to  notice  that  the  Eev.  John  Langdon's  house 
keeper  was  a  very  singular  looking  young  woman 
for  her  position.  Her  hair  was  conspicuously 
dark  at  the  roots  and  conspicuously  light  on  the 
ends.  Her  face  was  hard  and  when  she  smiled 
her  mouth  assumed  a  wolfish  expression.  She 
was  loudly  dressed  and  wore  a  profusion  of  jew 
elry — altogether  a  most  remarkable  looking 
woman  for  the  place  she  occupied. 

The  gardener  had  the  appearance  of  having 
been  si  Jdenly  wakened  before  nature  had  had 
her  full  quota  of  sleep.  He  was  blear-eyed  and 
his  breath  was  more  redolent  of  liquor  than  one 
might  have  expected  in  the  gardener  of  a  par 
sonage. 

The  room  in  which  the  ceremony  was  to  take 
place  was  the  ordinary  cottage  parlor,  with 
croehet  work  on  the  chairs,  and  a  profusion  of 


WAY    DOWN    BAST.  39 

vases  and  bric-a-brac  on  the  tables.  The  Rev. 
John  Langdon  requested  Anna  and  Sanderson 
to  stand  by  a  little  marble  table  from  which  the 
housekeeper  brushed  a  profusion  of  knick-knacks. 
There  was  no  Bible.  Anna  was  the  first  to  notice 
the  omission.  This  seemd  to  deprive  the  young 
clergyman  of  his  dignity.  He  looked  confused, 
blushed,  and  turning  to  the  housekeeper  told  her 
to  fetch  the  Bible..  This  seemed  to  appeal  to  the 
housekeeper's  sense  of  humor.  She  burst  out 
laughing  and  said  something  about  looking  for  a 
needle  in  a  haystack.  Sanderson  turned  on  her 
furiously,  and  she  left  the  room,  looking  sour, 
and  muttering  indignantly.  She  returned,  after 
what  seemed  an  interminable  space  of  time,  and 
the  ceremony  proceeded. 

Anna  did  not  recognize  her  own  voice  as  she 
answered  the  responses.  Sanderson's  was  clear 
and  ringing;  his  tones  never  faltered.  When 
the  time  came  to  put  the  ring  on  her  finger,  An 
na's  hand  trembled  so  violently  that  the  ring  fell 
to  the  floor  and  rolled  away.  Sanderson's  face 
turned  pale.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a  providential 
dispensation.  For  some  minutes,  the  assembled 


40  WAY   DOWN  EAST. 

company  joined  in  the  hunt  for  the  ring.    It  wag 
found  at  length  by  the  yellow-haired  housekeeper, 
who  returned  it  with  her  most  wolfish  grin. 
.     "Trust  Bertha  Harris  to  find  things !"  said  the 
clergyman. 

The  ceremony  proceeded  without  further  inci 
dent.  The  final  words  were  pronounced  and 
Anna  sank  into  a  chair,  relieved  that  it  was  over, 
whether  it  was  for  better  or  for  worse. 

Sanderson  hurried  her  into  the  carriage  before 
the  clergyman  and  the  witnesses  could  offer  their 
congratulations.  He  pulled  her  away  from  the 
yellow-haired  housekeeper,  who  would  have 
smothered  her  in  an  embrace,  and  they  departed 
without  the  customary  handshake  from  the  offici 
ating  clergyman. 

"You  were  not  very  cordial,  dear,"  she  said,  as 
they  rolled  along  through  the  early  winter  land 
scape. 

"Confound  them  all.  I  hated  to  see  them  near 
you" — and  then,  in  answer  to  her  questioning 
gaze — "because  I  love  you  so  much,  darling.  I 
hate  to  see  anyone  touch  you." 

The  trees  were  bare;  the  fields  stretched  away 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  ^Jj 

brown  and  flat,  like  the  folds  of  a  shroud,  and 
the  sun  was  veiled  by  lowering  clouds  of  gray. 
It  was  not  a  cheerful  day  for  a  wedding. 

"Lennox,  did  you  remember  that  this  is  Fri 
day?  And  I  have  on  a  black  dress." 

"And  now  that  Mrs.  Lennox  has  settled  the 
question  of  to  wed  or  not  to  wed,  by  wedding — 
behold,  she  is  worrying  herself  about  her  frock 
and  the  color  of  it,  and  the  day  of  the  week  and 
everything  else.  Was  there  ever  such  a  dear  lit 
tle  goose?"  He  pinched  her  cheek,  and  she — she 
smiled  up  at  him,  her  fears  allayed. 

"And  why  don't  you  ask  where  we  are  going, 
least  curious  of  women?" 

"I  forgot;  indeed  I  did." 

"We  are  going  to  the  White  Eose  Inn.  Ideal 
name  for  a  place  in  which  to  spend  one's  honey 
moon,  isn't  it?" 

"Any  place  would  be  ideal  with  you,  Lennie," 
and  she  slipped  her  little  hand  into  his  ruggeder 
palm. 

At  last  the  White  Rose  Inn  was  sighted ;  it  was 
ene  of  those  modern  hostelries,  built  on  an  old 
English  model.  The  windows  were  muslined, 


42  WAY    DOWN    BAST. 

rooms  were  wainscoted  in  oak,  the  furniture  was 
heavy  and  cumbersome.  Anna  was  delighted 
with  everything  she  saw.  Sanderson  had  had 
their  sitting-room  filled  with  crimson  roses,  they 
were  everywhere;  banked  on  the  mantelpiece,  on 
the  tables  and  window-sills.  Their  perfume  was 
to  Anna  like  the  loving  embrace  of  an  old  friend. 
Jacqueminots  had  been  so  closely  associated  with 
her  acquaintance  with  Sanderson,  in  after  years 
she  could  never  endure  their  perfume  and  their 
scarlet  petals  unnerved  her,  as  the  sight  of  blood 
does  some  women. 

A  trim  English  maid  came  to  assist  "Mrs.  Len 
nox,"  to  unpack  her  things.  Lunch  was  waiting 
in  the  sitting-room.  Sanderson  gave  minute  or 
ders  about  the  icing  of  his  own  particular  brand 
of  champagne,  which  he  had  had  sent  from  Bos 
ton. 

Anna  had  recovered  her  good  spirits.  It 
seemed  "such  a  jolly  lark,"  as  her  husband  said. 

"Sweetheart,  your  happiness,"  he  said,  and 
raised  his  glass  to  hers.  Her  eyes  sparkled  like 
the  champagne.  The  honeymoon  at  the  White 
Eose  Tavern  had  begun  very  merrily. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

A  LITTLE  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN. 

"The  moon — the  moon,  so  silver  and  cold, 
Her  fickle  temper  has  oft  been  told, 
Now  shady — now  bright  and  sunny — 
But  of  all  the  lunar  things  that  change, 
The  one  that  shows  most  fickle  and  strange, 
And  takes  the  most  eccentric  range 
Is  the  moon — so  called — of  honey." 

— Hood. 

"Mr  dear,  will  you  kindly  pour  me  a  second 
cup  of  coffee?  Not  because  I  really  want  it,  you 
know,  but  entirely  for  the  aesthetic  pleasure  of 
seeing  your  pretty  little  hands  pattering  about 
the  cups." 

Lennox  Sanderson,  in  a  crimson  velvet  smok 
ing  jacket,  was  segarding  Anna  with  the  most 


44  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

undisguised  admiration  from  the  other  side  of 
the  round  table,  that  held  their  breakfast, — their 
first  honeymoon  breakfast,  as  Anna  supposed  it 
'to  be. 

"Anything  to  please  my  husband,"  she  an 
swered  with  a  flitting  blush. 

"Your  husband?  Ah,  say  it  again;  it  sounds 
awfully  good  from  you." 

"So  you  don't  really  care  for  any  more  coffee, 
but  just  want  to  see  my  hands  among  the  cups. 
How  appreciative  you  are !"  And  there  was  a 
mischievous  twinkle  in  her  eye  as  she  began  with 
great  elaboration  the  pantomimic  representation 
of  pouring  a  cup  of  coffee,  adding  sugar  and 
cream ;  and  concluded  by  handing  the  empty  cup 
to  Sanderson.  "It  would  be  such  a  pity  to  waste 
the  coffee,  Lennie,  when  you  only  wanted  to  see 
my  hands." 

<  "If  I  am  not  going  to  have  the  coffee,  I  insist 
on  both  the  hands,"  he  said,  taking  them  and  kiss 
ing  them  repeatedly. 

"I  suppose  Til  have  to  give  it  to  you  on  those 
terms,"  and  she  proceeded  to  fill  the  cup  in  earn 
est  this  time. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  45 

"Let  me  see.  How  is  it  that  you  like  it?  One 
Jump  of  sugar  and  quite  a  bit  of  cream?  And 
tea  perfectly  clear  with  nothing  at  all  and  toast 
rery  crisp  and  dry.  Dear  me,  how  do  women  ever 
remember  all  their  husband's  likes  and  dislikes? 
It's  worse  than  learning  a  new  multiplication 
table  over  again,"  and  the  most  adorable  pucker 
contracted  her  pretty  brows. 

"And  yet,  see  how  beautifully  widows  manage 
it,  even  taking  the  thirty-third  degree  and  here 
you  are,  complaining  before  you  are  initiated, 
and  kindly  remember,  Mrs.  Lennox  Sanderson, 
if  I  take  but  one  lump  of  sugar  in  my  coffee, 
there  are  other  ways  of  sweetening  it."  Presum 
ably  he  got  it  sweetened  to  his  satisfaction,  for 
the  proprietor  of  the  "White  Rose,"  who  attended 
personally  to  the  wants  of  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Len 
nox"  had  to  cough  three  times  before  he  found 
it  discreet  to  enter  and  inquire  if  everything  was 
satisfactory. 

He  bowed  three  times  like  a  disjointed  foot- 
rule  and  then  retired  to  charge  up  the  wear  and 
tear  to  his  backbone  under  the  head  of  "special 
attendance." 


46  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

"H-m-m !"  sighed  Sanderson,  as  the  door  closed 
on  the  bowing  form  of  the  proprietor,  "that  fel 
low's  presence  reminds  me  that  we  are  not  abso 
lutely  alone  in  the  world,  and  you  had  almost 
convinced  me  that  we  were,  darling,  and  that  by 
special  Providence,  this  grim  old  earth  had  been 
turned  into  a  second  Garden  of  Eden  for  our 
benefit.  Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me  and  make 
me  forget  in  earnest,  this  time?" 

"I'm  sure,  Lennie,  I  infinitely  prefer  the  'White 
Rose  Inn'  with  you,  to  the  Garden  of  Paradise 
with  Adam."  She  not  only  granted  the  request, 
but  added  an  extra  one  for  interest. 

"You'll  make  me  horribly  vain,  Anna,  if  yon 
persist  in  preferring  me  to  Adam;  but  then  I 
dare  say,  Eve  would  have  preferred  him  and 
Paradise  to  me  and  the  'White  Rose.' ' 

"But,  then,  Eve's  taste  lacked  discrimination* 
She  had  to  take  Adam  or  become  the  first  girl 
bachelor.  With  me  there  might  have  been  alter 
natives." 

"There  might  have  been  others,  to  speak  vul< 
garly?" 

"Exactly." 


WAY    DOWN    BAST.  47 

"By  Jove,  Anna,  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  did 
come  to  care  for  me!"  The  laughter  died  out  of 
(his  eyes,  his  face  grew  preternaturally  grave,  he 
'strode  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
desolate  landscape.  For  the  first  time  he  realized 
the  gravity  of  his  offense.  His  crime  against  this 
girl,  who  had  been  guilty  of  nothing  but  loving 
mm  too  deeply  stood  out,  stripped  of  its  trap 
pings  of  sentiment,  in  all  its  foul  selfishness.  He 
would  right  the  wrong,  confess  to  her ;  but  no,  he 
dare  not,  she  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  to  con- 
done  such  an  offense. 

"Needles  and  pins,  needles  and  pins,  when  a 
man's  married  his  trouble  begins,"  quoted  Anna 
gayly,  slipping  up  behind  him  and  putting  her 
arms  about  his  neck;  "one  would  think  the  old 
nursery  ballad  was  true,  to  look  at  you,  Lennox 
Sanderson.  I  never  saw  such  a  married-man 
expression  before  in  my  life.  You  wanted  to 
know  why  I  fell  in  love  with  you.  I  could  not 
help  it,  because  you  are  YOU." 

She  nestled  her  head  in  his  shoulder  and  he 
forgot  his  scruples  in  the  sorcery  of  her  pres 
ence. 


48  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  withi 
perhaps  the  most  geniune  affection  he  ever  felt 
for  her,  "I  wish  we  could  spend  our  lives  here 
in  this  quiet  little  place,  and  that  there  were  ne 
troublesome  relations  or  outside  world  demand 
ing  us." 

"So  do  I,  dear,"  she  answered,  "but  it  could 
not  last;  we  are  too  perfectly  happy." 

Neither  spoke  for  some  mintues.  At  that  time 
he  loved  her  as  deeply  as  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  love  anyone.  Again  the  impulse  came  to  tell 
her,  beg  for  forgiveness  and  make  reparation.  He 
was  holding  her  in  his  arms,  considering.  A  mo 
ment  more,  and  he  would  have  given  way  to  the 
only  unselfish  impulse  in  his  life.  But  again  the 
knock,  followed  by  the  discreet  cough  of  the  pro 
prietor.  And  when  he  entered  to  tell  them  that 
the  horses  were  ready  for  their  drive,  "Mrs.  Len 
nox"  hastened  to  put  on  her  jacket  and  "Mr.  Len 
nox"  thanked  his  stars  that  he  had  not  spoken. 


WAX    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  WAYS  OF  DESOLATION. 

•'Oh !  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 
Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd, 
Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 
The  trusting  bosom  when  betray'd." 

— Moore. 

FOUR  months  had  elapsed  since  the  honeymoon 
at  the  White  Rose  Tavern,  and  Anna  was  living 
at  Waltham  with  her  mother  who  grew  more 
fretful  and  complaining  every  day.  The  mar 
riage  was  still  the  secret  of  Anna  and  Sanderson. 
The  honeymoon  at  the  White  Eose  had  been  pro* 
longed  to  a  week,  but  no  suspicion  had  entered 
the  minds  of  Mrs.  Moore  or  Mrs.  Standish  Tre- 
mont,  thanks  to  Sanderson's  skill  in  sending  fic 
titious  telegrams,  aided  by  so  skilled  an  accom 
plice  as  the  "Eev."  John  Langdon. 


$0  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Week  after  week,  Anna  had  yielded  to  Sander 
son's  entreaties  and  kept  her  marriage  a  secret 
jfrom  her  mother.  At  first  he  had  sent  her  remit* 
Dances  of  money  with  frequent  regularity,  but? 
lately,  they  had  begun  to  fall  off,  his  letters  were 
less  frequent,  shorter  and  more  reserved  in  tone, 
and  the  burden  of  it  all  was  crushing  the  youth 
out  of  the  girl  and  breaking  her  spirit.  She  had 
grown  to  look  like  some  great  sorrowful-eyed 
Madonna,  and  her  beauty  had  in  it  more  of  the 
spiritual  quality  of  an  angel  than  of  a  woman. 
As  the  spring  came  on,  and  the  days  grew  longer 
she  looked  like  one  on  whom  the  hand  of  death 
had  been  laid. 

•  Her  friends  noticed  this,  but  not  her  mother, 
who  was  so  engrossed  with  her  own  privations, 
that  she  had  no  time  or  inclination  for  anything 
else. 

"Anna,  Anna,  to  think  of  our  coming  to  this  V9 
she  would  wail  a  dozen  times  a  day — or,  "Ann% 
I  can't  stand  it  another  minute,"  and  she  would 
burst  into  paroxysms  of  grief,  from  which  noth 
ing  could  arouse  her,  and  utterly  exhausted  by 
her  own  emotions,  which  were  chiefly  regret  and 


WAY     DOWN    EAST.  51 

self -pity,  she  would  sink  off  to  sleep.  Anna  had  no 
difficulty  in  accounting  to  her  mother  for  the 
extra  comforts  with  which  Lennox  Sanderson's 
money  supplied  them.  Mrs.  Standish  Tremont 
sometimes  sent  checks  and  Mrs.  Moore  never 
bothered  about  the  source,  so  long  as  the  luxuries 
were  forthcoming. 

"Is  there  no  more  Kumyss,  Anna?"  she  asked 
one  day. 

"No,  mother." 

"Then  why  did  you  neglect  to  order  it?" 

The  girl's  face  grew  red.  "There  was  no  money 
to  pay  for  it,  mother.  I  am  so  sorry." 

"And  does  Frances  Tremont  neglect  us  in  this 
way?  When  we  were  both  girls,  it  was  quite  the 
other  way.  My  father  practically  adopted  Fran 
ces  Tremont.  She  was  married  from  our  house. 
But  you  see,  Anna,  she  made  a  better  marriage 
than  I.  Oh,  why  was  your  father  so  reckless?  I 
warned  him  not  to  speculate  in  the  rash  way  he 
was  accustomed  to  doing,  but  he  would  never 
take  my  advice.  If  he  had,  we  would  not  be  as 
we  are  now."  And  again  the  poor  lady  was  over« 
come  with  her  own  sorrows. 


52  "WAT    DOWN    EAST. 

It  was  not  Mrs.  Tremont's  check  that  had 
bought  the  last  Kumyss.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Tremont, 
after  the  manner  of  rich  relations,  troubled  her 
head  hut  little  about  her  poor  ones.  Sanderson 
had  sent  no  money  for  nearly  a  month,  and  Anna 
would  hare  died  sooner  than  hare  asked  for  it. 
He  had  been  to  Waltham  twice  to  see  Anna,  and 
once  she  had  gone  to  meet  him  at  the  White  Bose 
Tavern.  Mrs.  Moore,  wrapped  in  gloom  at  the 
loss  of  her  own  luxury,  had  no  interest  in  the 
young  man  who  came  down  from  Boston  to  call 
on  her  daughter. 

"You  met  him  at  Cousin  Frances's,  did  you 
say?  I  don't  see  how  you  can  ask  him  here  to 
this  abominable  little  house,  A  girl  should  have 
good  surroundings,  Anna.  Nothing  detracts 
from  a  girl's  beauty  so  much  as  cheap  surround 
ings.  Oh,  my  dear,  if  you  had  only  been  settled 
in  life  before  all  this  happened,  I  would  not  com 
plain."  And,  as  usual,  there  were  more  tears. 

But  the  wailings  of  her  mother,  over  departed 
luxuries,  and  the  pOYerty  of  her  surroundings 
were  the  lightest  of  Anna's  griefs.  At  their  last 
meeting— she  had  gone  to  him  in  response  to  his 


WAT    MWN    BAST.  .53 

request — Sanderson's  manner  had  struck  domb 
terror  into  the  heart  of  the  girl  who  had  sacri 
ficed  so  mnch  at  his  bidding.  She  had  been  very 
'pala  The  strain  of  facing  the  terrible  position 
in  which  she  found  herself,  coupled  with  her  own 
failing  health,  had  robbed  her  of  the  beautiful 
color  he  had  always  so  frankly  admired-  Her 
eyes  were  big  and  hollow  looking,  and  the  deep 
black  circles  about  them  only  added  to  her  un 
earthly  appearance.  There  were  drawn  lines  of 
pain  about  the  mouth,  that  robbed  the  Cupid's 
bow  of  half  its  beauty. 

"My  God,  Anna!"  he  had  said  to  her  impa 
tiently.  "A  man  might  as  well  try  to  love  a 
corpse  as  a  woman  who  looks  like  that."  He  led 
her  over  to  a  mirror,  that  she  might  see  her 
wasted  charms.  There  was  no  need  for  her  to 
look.  She  knew  well  enough  what  was  reflected 

there, 
- 

"You  hare  no  right  to  let  yourself  get  like  this. 

The  only  thing  a  woman  has  is  her  looks,  and  it 
is  a  crime  if  she  throws  them  away  worrying 
and  fretting." 

"But  Lennox,"  she  answered  desperately,  "I 


54  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

have  told  you  how  matters  stand  with  me,  and 
mother  knows  nothing — suspects  nothing."  And 
the  girl  broke  down  and  wept  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

"Anna,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  stop  crying.  I 
hate  a  scene  worse  than  anything  in  the  world. 
When  a  woman  cries,  it  means  but  one  thing,  and 
that  is  that  the  man  must  give  in — and  in  this 
particular  instance  I  can't  give  in.  It  would  ruin 
me  with  the  governor  to  acknowledge  our  mar 
riage." 

The  girl's  tears  froze  at  his  brutal  words.  She 
looked  about  dazed  and  hopeless. 

Sanderson  was  standing  by  the  window,  drum 
ming  a  tattoo  on  the  pane.  He  wheeled  about, 
and  said  slowly,  as  if  he  were  feeling  his  way : 

"Anna,  suppose  I  give  you  a  sum  of  money  and 
you  go  away  till  all  this  bsuiness  is  over.  You 
can  tell  your  mother  or  not;  just  as  you  see  fit. 
As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  acknowledge  our  marriage  as  I  have 
said  before.  If  the  governor  found  it  out,  he 
weuld  cut  me  off  without  a  cent." 


WAY     DOWN     EAST.  55 

,,  Lennox,  I  cannot  leave  my  mother.    Her 
health  grows  worse  daily,  and  it  would  kill  her." 

"Then  take  her  with  you.  She's  got  to  know, 
sooner  or  later,  I  suppose.  NOW,  don't  be  a 
stupid  little  girl,  and  everything  will  turn  out 
well  for  us."  He  patted  her  cheek,  but  it  was 
done  perfunctorily,  and  Anna  knew  there  was 
no  use  in  making  a  further  appeal  to  him. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  have  got  to  tak< 
that  4.30  train  back  to  Cambridge.  Here  is  some 
thing  for  you,  and  let  me  know  just  as  soon  ar 
you  make  up  your  mind,  when  you  intend  to  gtf 
and  where.  There  is  no  use  in  your  staying  io 
Waltham  till  those  old  cats  begin  to  talk." 

He  put  a  roll  of  bills  in  her  hand,  kissed  her 
and  was  gone,  and  Anna  turned  her  tottering 
steps  homeward,  sick  at  heart.  She  must  tell  her 
mother,  and  the  shock  of  it  might  kill  her.  She 
pressed  her  hands  over  her  burning  eyes  to  blot 
out  the  hideous  picture.  Could  cruel  fate  offer 
bitterer  dregs  to  young  lips? 

She  stopped  at  the  postoffice  for  mail.  There 
was  nothing  but  the  daily  paper.  She  took  it 


56  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

mechanically  and  turned  into  the  little  side  street 
on  which  they  lived. 

i  The  old  family  servant,  who  still  lived  with 
them,  met  her  at  the  door,  and  told  her  that  her 
mother  had'  been  sleeping  quietly  for  more  than 
an  hour. 

"Good  gracious,  Miss  Anna,  but  you  do  look  ill, 
Just  step  into  the  parlor  and  sit  down  for  a  min 
ute,  and  I'll  make  you  a  cup  of  tea," 

Anna  suffered  herself  to  be  led  into  the  little 
room,  smiling  gratefully  at  the  old  servant  as  she 
assisted  her  to  remove  her  hat  and  jacket.  She 
took  up  the  paper  mechanically  and  glanced 
through  its  contents.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  fol 
lowing  item,  which  she  followed  with  hypnotic 
interest:  "Harvard  Student  in  Disgrace!"  was 
the  headline. 

"John  Langdon,  a  Harvard  student,  was  ar 
rested  on  the  complaint  of  Bertha  Harris,  a 
young  woman,  well  known  in  Boston's  gas-light 
circles,  yesterday  evening.  They  had  been  dining 
together  at  a  well-known  chop  house,  when  the 
woman,  who  appeared  to  be  slightly  under  the  JP- 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  5f 

ifluence  of  liquor,  suddenly  arose  and  declared 
that  Langdon  was  trying  to  rob  her. 
(  "Both  were  arrested  on  the  charge  of  creating 
a  disturbance.  At  the  State  Street  Police  Station 
the  woman  said  that  Langdon  had  performed  a 
mock  marriage  for  a  fellow  student  some  four 
months  ago.  She  had  acted  as  a  witness,  for 
which  service  she  was  to  receive  $50.  The  money 
had  never  been  paid.  She  stated  further  that  the 
young  man,  whom  Langdon  is  alleged  to  have 
married,  is  the  son  of  a  wealthy  Boston  banker, 
and  the  young  woman  who  was  thus  deceived  is 
a  young  relative  of  one  of  Boston's  social  leaders. 

^Later  Bertha  Harris  withdrew  her  charges, 
saying  she  was  intoxicated  when  she  made  them. 
The  affair  has  created  a  profound  sensation." 

"Mock  marriage!"  The  words  whirled  before 
the  girPs  eyes  in  letters  of  fire.  Bertha  Harris! 
Yes,  that  was  the  name.  It  had  struck  her  at  the 
-time  when  Sanderson  'dropped  the  ring.  Lang 
don  had  said  "Bertha  Harris  has  found  it." 

The  light  of  her  reason  seemed  to  be  going  out. 
From  the  blackness  that  engulfed  her,  the  words 


58  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"mock  marriage"  rang  in  her  ear  like  the  cry  ot 
the  drowning. 

"God,  oh  God!"  she  called  and  the  pent  uv 
agony  of  her  wrecked  life  was  in  the  cry. 

They  found  her  senseless  a  moment  later,  stat 
ing  up  at  the  ceiling  with  glassy  eyes,  the 
crumpled  paper  crushed  in  her  hand. 

"She  is  dead/'  wailed  her  mother.  The  old 
servant  wasted  no  time  in  words.  She  lifted  up 
the  fragile  form  and  laid  it  tenderly  on  the  bed. 
Then  she  raised  the  window  and  called  to  the  first 
passerby  to  run  for  the  nearest  doctor. 


iWAY    DOWN    EAST.  59 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

A  mother's  love — how  sweet  the  name! 

What  is  a  mother's  Ipve? 

— A  noble,  pure  and  tender  flame, 

Enkindled  from  above, 

To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould ; 

The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold; 

That  is  a  mother's  love. 

— James  Montgomery. 

TP  took  all  the  medical  skill  of  which  the  doc 
tor  was  capable,  and  the  best  part  of  twenty-four 
hours  of  hard  work  to  rouse  Anna  from  the 
death-like  lethargy  into  which  she  had  fallen. 
Toward  morning  she  opened  her  eyes  and  turning 
to  her  mother,  said  appealingly: 

"Mother,  you  believe  I  am  innocent,  don't 
you?" 

"Certainly,  darling,"  Mrs.  Moore  replied,  with* 


(g0  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

out  knowing  in  the  least  to  what  her  daughter 
referred.  The  doctor,  who  was  present  at  the 
time,  turned  away.  He  knew  more  than  the 
mother.  It  was  one  of  those  tragedies  of  every 
day  life  that  meant  for  the  woman  the  fleeing 
away  from  old  associations,  like  a  guilty  thing, 
long  months  of  hiding,  the  facing  of  death ;  and, 
if  death  was  not  to  be,  the  beginning  of  life  over 
again  branded  with  shame.  And  all  this  bitter 
injustice  because  she  had  loved  much  and  had 
faith  in  the  man  she  loved.  The  doctor  had  faced 
tragedies  before  in  his  professional  life,  but  never 
had  he  felt  his  duty  so  heavily  laid  upon  him  as 
when  he  begged  Mrs.  Moore  for  a  few  minutes' 
private  conversation  in  the  gray  dawn  of  that 
early  morning. 

He  felt  that  the  life  of  his  patient  depended 
on  his  preparing  her  mother  for  the  worst.  The 
girl,  he  knew,  would  probably  confess  all  during 
her  convalescence,  and  the  mother  must  be  pre 
pared,  so  that  the  first  burst  of  anguish  would 
have  expended  itself  before  the  girl  should  have 
a  chance  to  pour  out  the  story  of  her  misfortune. 

"Tell  me,  doctor,  is  she  going  to  die?"  the 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  gj 

mother  asked,  as  she  closed  the  door  of  the  little 
sitting-room  and  they  were  alone.  The  poor  lady 
had  not  thought  of  her  own  misfortunes  since 
Anna's  illness.  The  selfishness  of  the  woman  of 
the  world  was  completely  obliterated  by  the 
anxiety  of  the  mother. 

"No,  she  will  not  die,  Mrs.  Moore;  that  is>  if 
you  are  able  to  control  your  feelings  sufficiently, 
after  I  have  made  a  most  distressing  disclosure, 
to  give  her  the  love  and  sympathy  that  only  you 
can." 

She  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes.  "Why, 
doctor,  what  do  you  mean?  My  daughter  has 
always  had  my  love  and  sympathy,  and  if  of  late 
I  have  appeared  somewhat  engrossed  by  my  own 
troubles,  I  assure  you  my  daughter  is  not  likely 
to  suffer  from  it  during  her  illness." 

"Her  life  depends  on  how  you  receive  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you.  Should  you  upbraid  hei 
with  her  misfortune,  or  fail  to  stand  by  her  as 
only  a  mother  can,  I  shall  not  answer  for  the  con 
sequences."  Then  he  told  her  Anna's  secret. 

The  stricken  woman  did  not  cry  out  in  her  an 
guish,  ner  swo@n  away.  She  raised  a  feebly  pro- 


Q%  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

testing  hand,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  cruel  blow;  then, 
burying  her  face  in  her  arms,  she  cowed  before 
him.  Not  a  sob  shook  the  frail,  wasted  figure.  It 
was  as  if  this  most  terrible  misfortune  had  dried 
up  the  well-springs  of  grief  and  robbed  her  of  the 
blessed  gift  of  tears.  The  woman  who  in  one 
brief  year  had  lost  everything  that  life  held  dear 
to  her — husband,  home,  wealth,  position — every 
thing  but  this  one  child,  could  not  believe  the  ter 
rible  sentence  that  had  been  pronounced  against 
her.  Her  Anna — her  little  girl !  Why,  she  was 
only  a  child !  Oh,  no,  it  could  not  be  true.  She 
never,  never  would  believe  it. 

Her  brain  whirled  and  seemed  to  stop.  It  re 
fused  to  grasp  so  hideous  a  proposition.  The 
doctor  was  momentarily  at  a  loss  to  know  how 
to  deal  with  this  terrible  dry-eyed  grief.  The  set 
look  in  her  eye^  the  terrible  calm  of  her  de 
meanor  were  so  much  more  alarming  than  the 
wildest  outpurings  of  grief  would  have  been. 

"And  this  seizure,  Mrs.  Moore.  Tell  me  ex 
actly  how  it  was  brought  about,"  thinking  to  turn 
the  current  of  her  thoughts  even  for  a  moment. 

She  told  him  how  Anna  had  gone  out  in  the 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  (J5 

earty  afternoon,  without  saying  where  she  was 
going,  and  how  she  had  returned  to  the  house 
about  five  o'clock,  looking  so  pale  and  ill,  that 
Hannah,  an  old  family  servant  who  still  lived 
with  them,  noticed  it  and  begged  her  to  sit  down 
while  she  went  to  fetch  her  a  cup  of  tea.  Tho 
maid  left  her  sitting  by  the  fire-place  reading  a 
paper,  and  the  next  thing  was  the  terrible  cry 
that  brought  them  both.  They  found  her  lying 
on  the  floor  unconscious  with  the  crumpled  news 
paper  in  her  hand. 

"See,  here  is  the  paper  now,  doctor,"  and  he 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  crumpled  sheet  from  which 
the  girl  had  read  her  death  warrant.  Together 
they  went  over  it  in  the  hope  that  it  might  fur 
nish  some  clue.  Mrs.  Moore's  eyes  were  the  first 
to  fall  on  the  fatal  paragraph.  She  read  it 
through,  then  showed  it  to  the  doctor. 

"That  is  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  the  seizure," 
said  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  my  poor,  poor  darling,"  moaned  the 
mother,  and  the  first  tears  fell. 

In  the  first  bitteine&s  of  regret,  Mrs.  Moore 
imagined  that  in  selfishly  abandoning  herself  to 


(54i  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

her  own  grief,  she  must  have  neglected  her  daugh 
ter,  and  her  remorse  knew  no  bounds.  Again  and 
again  she  bitterly  denounced  herself  for  giving 
way  to  sorrow  that  now  seemed  light  and  trivial, 
compared  to  the  black  hopelessness  of  the  pres* 
ent. 

Anna's  mind  wandered  in  her  delirium,  and  she 
would  talk  of  her  marriage  and  beg  Sanderson 
to  let  her  tell  her  mother  all.  Then  she  would 
fancy  that  she  was  again  with  Mrs.  Tremont  and 
she  would  go  through  the  pros  and  cons  of  the 
whole  affair.  Should  she  marry  him  secretly,  as 
he  wished?  Yes,  it  would  be  better  for  poor 
mama,  who  needed  so  many  comforts,  but  was  it 
right?  And  then  the  passionate  appeal  to  San 
derson.  Couldn't  he  realize  her  position? 

"Yes,  darling,  it  is  all  right.  Mother  under 
stands,"  the  heartbroken  woman  would  repeat 
ever  and  over  again,  but  the  sick  girl  could  not 
hear. 

And  so  the  days  wore  on,  till  at  last  Anna's 
wandering  mind  turned  back  to  earth,  and  again 
took  up  the  burden  of  living.  There  was  nothing 
for  her  to  tell  her  mother.  In  her  delirium  she 


THE  MEETING  OF  DAVE  AND  ANNA.— Page  83. 


WAY     DOWN     EAST.  g5 

had  told  all,  and  the  mother  was  prepared  to 
bravely  face  the  worst  for  her  daughter's  sake. 

The  terrible  blow  brought  mother  and  daugh« 
ter  closer  together  than  they  had  been  for  years. 
In  their  prosperity,  the  young  girl  had  been  busy 
with  her  governess  and  instructors,  while  her 
mother  had  made  a  fine  art  of  her  invalidism  and 
spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  at  health  re 
sorts,  baths  and  spas. 

By  mutual  consent,  they  decided  that  it  was 
better  not  to  attempt  to  seek  redress  from  San 
derson.  Anna's  letters,  written  during  her  con 
valescence,  had  remained  unanswered,  and  any 
effort  to  force  him,  either  by  persuasion  or  proc 
ess  of  law,  to  right  the  terrible  wrong  he  had 
done,  was  equally  repulsive  to  both  mother  and 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Standish  Tremont  was  also  equally  out 
of  the  question,  as  a  court  of  final  appeal.  She 
had  been  so  piqued  with  Anna  for  interfering 
with  her  most  cherished  plans  regarding  Sander 
son  and  Grace  Tremont,  that  Anna  knew  well 
enough  that  there  would  only  be  further  humilia 
tion  in  seeking  mercy  from  that  quarter*  j 


66  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

So  mother  and  daughter  prepared  to  face  the 
inevitable  alone.  To  this  end,  Mrs.  Moore  sold 
the  last  of  her  jewelry.  She  had  kept  it,  thinking 
that  Anna  would  perhaps  marry  some  day  and 
appreciate  the  heirlooms;  but  such  a  contingent 
was  no  longer  to  be  considered,  and  the  jewelry, 
and  the  last  of  the  family  silver,  were  sent  to  be 
sold,  together  with  every  bit  of  furniture  with 
which  they  could  dispense,  and  mother  and 
daughter  left  the  little  cottage  in  Waltham,  and 
went  to  the  town  of  Belden,  New  Hampshire, — 
a  place  so  inconceivably  remote,  that  there  was 
little  chance  of  any  of  their  former  friends  being 
able  to  trace  them,  even  if  they  should  desire  to 
do  so. 

As  the  summer  days  grew  shorter,  and  the  hour 
of  Anna's  ordeal  grew  near,  Mrs.  Moore  had  but 
one  prayer  in  her  heart,  and  that  was  that  her  life 
might  be  spared  till  her  child's  troubles  were 
over.  Since  Anna's  illness  in  the  early  spring, 
she  had  utterly  disregarded  herself.  No  com 
plaint  was  heard  to  pass  her  lips.  Her  time  was 
spent  in  one  unselfish  effort  to  make  her  daugh 
ter's  life  less  painful.  But  the  strain  of  it  was 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  (J7 

telling,  and  she  knew  that  life  with  her  was  but 
the  question  of  weeks,  perhaps  days.  As  her 
physical  grasp  grew  weaker,  her  mental  hold  in 
creased  proportionately,  and  she  determined  to 
live  till  she  had  either  closed  her  child's  eyes  in 
death,  or  left  her  with  something  for  which  to 
struggle,  as  she  herself  was  now  struggling. 

But  the  poor  mother's  last  wish  was  not  to  be 
granted.  In  the  beginning  of  September,  just 
when  the  earth  was  full  of  golden  promise  of 
autumn,  she  felt  herself  going.  She  felt  the  icy 
hand  of  death  at  her  heart  and  the  grim  destroyer 
whispered  in  her  ear:  "Make  ready."  Oh,  the 
anguish  of  going  just  then,  when  she  was  needed 
so  sorely  by  her  deceived  and  deserted  child. 

"Anna,  darling,"  she  called  feebly,  "I  cannot 
be  with  you ;  I  am  going — I  have  prayed  to  stay, 
but  it  was  not  to  be.  Your  child  will  comfort 
you,  darling.  There  is  nothing  like  a  child's  love, 
Anna,  to  make  a  woman  forget  old  sorrows — 
kiss  me,  dear "  She  was  gone. 

And  so  Anna  was  to  go  down  into  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death  alone,  and  among 
strangers. 


68  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  DAYS  OF  WAITING. 

"Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eyes  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big  drops  mingled  with  the  milk  he  drew 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years — 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears." 

— John  Langhorne. 

THE  days  of  Anna's  waiting  lagged.  She  lost 
all  count  of  time  and  season.  Each  day  was  pain 
fully  like  its  predecessor,  a  period  of  time  to  be 
gone  through  with,  as  best  she  could.  She  real 
ized  after  her  mother's  death  what  the  gentle 
companionship  had  been  to  her,  what  a  prop  the 
frail  mother  had  become  in  her  hour  of  need. 
For  a  great  change  had  come  over  the  querulous 
invalid  with  the  beginning  of  her  daughter's  trou 
bles,  the  grievances  of  the  woman  of  the  world 
were  forgotten  in  the  anxiety  of  the  mother,  and 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  g9 

never  by  look  or  word  did  she  chide  her  daughter, 
or  make  her  affliction  anything  but  easier  to  bear 
by  her  gentle  presence. 

Anna,  sunk  in  the  stupor  of  her  own  grief,  did 
not  realize  the  comfort  of  her  mother's  presence 
until  it  was  too  late.  She  shrank  from  the 
strangers  with  whom  they  made  their  little  home 
— a  middle  aged  shopkeeper  and  his  wife,  who 
had  been  glad  enough  to  rent  them  two  unused 
rooms  in  their  house  at  a  low  figure.  They  were 
not  lacking  in  sympathy  for  young  "Mrs.  Len 
nox,"  but  their  disposition  to  ask  questions  made 
Anna  shun  them  as  she  would  have  an  infection. 
After  her  mother's  death,  they  tried  harder  than 
ever  to  be  kind  to  her,  but  the  listless  girl,  who 
spent  her  days  gazing  at  nothing,  was  hardly 
aware  of  their  comings  and  goings. 

"If  you  would  only  try  to  eat  a  bit,  my  dear," 
said  the  corpulent  Mrs.  Smith,  bustling  into  An 
na's  room.    "And  land  sakes,  don't  take  on  so. 
There  you  set  in  that  chair  all  day  long.    Just^ 
rouse  yourself,  my  dear;  there  ain't  no  trouble,^ 
however  bad,  but  could  be  wuss." 

To  this  dismal  philosophy,  Anna  would  return 


70  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

a  wan  smile,  while  she  felt  her  heart  almost 
within  her. 

"And,  Mrs.  Lennox,  don't  mind  what  I  say  to 
you.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  grandmother, 
but  if  you  have  quarreled  with  any  one,  don't  be 
too  spunky  now  about  making  up.  Spunk  is  all 
right  in  its  place,  but  its  place  ain't  at  the  bed 
side  of  a  young  woman  who's  got  to  face  the  trial 
of  her  life.  If  you  have  quarreled  with  any  one 
— your — your  husband,  say,  now  is  the  time  to 
make  it  up,  since  your  ma  is  gone." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  motherliness  and  curiosity.  As  she 
said  to  her  husband  a  dozen  times  a  day,  "her 
heart  just  ached  for  that  pore  young  thing  up 
stairs,"  but  this  tender  solicitude  did  not  prevent 
her  ears  from  aching,  at  the  same  time,  to  hear 
Anna's  story. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  interest, 
Mrs.  Smith ;  but  really,  you  must  let  me  judge  of 
my  own  affairs."  There  was  a  dignity  about  the 
girl  that  brooked  no  further  interference. 

"That's  right,  my  dear,  and  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  suggesting  it,  but  you  do  seem  that 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  »fj 

young — well,  I  must  be  going  down  to  put  the 
potatoes  on  for  dinner.  If  you  want  anything, 
just  ring  your  bell." 

There  was  not  the  least  resentment  cherished 
by  the  corpulent  Mrs.  Smith.  The  girl's  answer 
confirmed  her  opinion  from  the  first.  "She  would 
not  send  for  her  husband,  because  there  wasn't 
no  husband  to  send  for."  She  mentioned  her  con 
victions  to  her  husband  and  added  she  meant  to 
write  to  sister  Eliza  that  very  night. 

"Sister  Eliza  has  an  uncommon  light  hand 
with  babies  and  that  pore  young  thing'll  be  hard 
pushed  to  pay  the  doctor,  let  alone  a  nurse." 

These  essentially  feminine  details  regarding 
the  talents  of  Sister  Eliza,  did  not  especially  in 
terest  Smith,  who  continued  his  favorite  occupa 
tion — or  rather,  joint  occupations,  of  whittling 
and  expectorating.  Nevertheless,  the  letter  to 
Sister  Eliza  was  written,  and  not  a  minute  sooner 
than  was  necessary;  for,  the  little  soul  that  was 
to  bring  with  it  forgetfulness  for  all  the  agony 
through  which  its  mother  had  lived  during  that 
awful  year,  came  very  soon  after  the  arrival  of 
Sister  Eliza. 


72  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Anna  had  felt  in  those  days  of  waiting  that  she 
could  never  again  be  happy;  that  for  her  "finis" 
had  been  written  by  the  fates.  But,  as  she  lay 
with  the  dark-haired  baby  on  her  breast,  she 
found  herself  planning  for  the  little  girl's  future ; 
even  happy  in  the  building  of  those  heavenly  air- 
castles  that  young  mothers  never  weary  of  build- 
ing.  She  felt  the  necessity  of  growing  strong  so 
that  she  could  work  early  and  late,  for  baby  must 
have  everything,  even  if  mother  went  without. 
Sometimes  a  fleeting  likeness  to  Sanderson  would 
flit  across  the  child's  face,  and  a  spasm  of  pain 
would  clutch  at  Anna's  heart,  but  she  would  for 
get  it  next  moment  in  one  of  baby's  most  heavenly 
smiles. 

She  could  think  of  him  now  without  a  shudder; 
even  a  lingering  remnant  of  tenderness  would 
flare  up  in  her  heart  when  she  remembered  he  was 
the  baby's  father.  Perhaps  he  would  see  the  child 
sometime,  and  her  sweet  baby  ways  would  plead 
to  him  more  eloquently  than  could  all  her  words 
to  right  the  wrong  he  had  done,  and  so  the  days 
slipped  by  and  the  little  mother  was  happy,  after 
the  long  drawn  out  days  of  waiting  and  misery. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  73 

She  would  sing  the  baby  to  sleep  in  her  low  con 
tralto  voice,  and  feel  that  it  mattered  not  whether 
the  world  smiled  or  frowned  on  her,  so  long  as 
baby  approved. 

But  this  blessed  state  of  affairs  was  not  long  to 
continue.  Anna,  as  she  grew  stronger,  felt  the* 
necessity  of  seeking  employment,  but  to  this  the 
baby  proved  a  formidable  obstacle.  No  one 
would  give  a  young  woman,  hampered  with  a 
child,  work.  She  would  come  back  to  the  baby 
at  night  worn  out  in  mind  and  body,  after  a  day 
of  fruitless  searching.  These  long  trips  of  the 
little  mother,  with  the  consequent  long  absence 
and  exhaustion  on  her  return,  did  not  improve 
the  little  one's  health,  and  almost  before  Anna 
realized  it  was  ailing,  the  baby  sickened  and  died. 
It  was  her  cruelest  blow.  For  the  child's  sake 
she  had  taken  up  her  interest  in  life,  made  plans, 
and  was  ready  to  work  her  fingers  to  the  bone, 
but  it  was  not  to  be  and  with  the  first  falling  of 
the  clods  on  the  little  coffin,  Anna  felt  the  last 
ray  of  hope  extinguished  from  her  heart. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  THE  THRESHOLD  OP  SHELTER. 

Alas !    To-day  I  would  give  everything 
To  &ce  a  friend's  face,  or  hear  voice 
That  Lad  the  slightest  tone  of  comfort  in  it. 

— Longfellow. 

ABOUT  two  miles  from  the  town  of  Belden, 
N.  H.,  stands  an  irregular  farm  house  that  looks 
more  like  two  dwellings  forced  to  pass  as  one. 
One  part  of  it  is  all  gables,  and  tile,  and  chimney 
corners,  and  antiquity,  and  the  other  is  square, 
slated,  and  of  the  newest  cut,  outside  and  in. 

The  farm  is  the  property  of  Squire  Amasa 
Bartlett,  a  good  type  of  the  big  man  of  the  small 
place.  He  was  a  contented  and  would  have  been 
a  happy  man — or  at  least  thought  he  would  have 
been — if  the  dearest  wish  of  his  life  could  have 
been  realized.  It  was  that  his  son,  Dave,  and  his 


WAY     DOWN    EAST. 


75 


wife's  niece,  Kate,  should  marry.  Kate  was  an 
orphan  and  the  Squire's  ward.  She  owned  the 
adjoining  land,  that  was  farmed  with  the 
Squire's  as  one.  So  that  Cupid  would  not  have 
come  to  them  empty  handed ;  but  the  young  peo 
ple  appeared  to  have  little  interest  in  each  other 
apart  from  that  cousinly  affection  which  young 
people  who  are  brought  together  would  in  all 
probability  feel  for  each  other. 

Dave  was  a  handsome,  dark-eyed  young  man, 
whose  silence  passed  with  some  for  sulkiness; 
but  he  was  not  sulky — only  deep  and  thoughtful, 
and  perhaps  a  little  more  devoid  of  levity  than 
becomes  a  young  man  of  twenty-five.  He  had 
great  force  of  character — you  might  have  seen 
that  from  his  grave  brow,  and  felt  it  in  his  simple 
speech  and  manner,  that  was  absolutely  free  from 
affectation. 

Dave  was  his  mother's  idol,  but  his  utter  lack 
of  worldliness,  his  inability  to  drive  a  shrewd 
bargain  sometimes  annoyed  his  father,  who  was 
a  just,  but  an  undeniably  hard  man,  who  de 
manded  a  hundred  cents  for  his  dollar  every  day 
in  the  year. 


70  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Kate,  whom  the  family  circle  hoped  would  one 
day  be  David's  wife,  was  all  blonde  hair,  blue 
eyes  and  high  spirits,  so  that  the  little  blind  god, 
aided  by  the  Squire's  strategy,  propinquity  and 
the  universal  law  of  the  attraction  of  opposites, 
should  have  had  no  difficulty  in  making  these 
young  people  fall  in  love — but  Destiny,  appar 
ently,  decided  to  make  them  exceptions  to  all 
rules. 

Kate  was  fond  of  going  to  Boston  to  visit  a 
schoolmate,  and  the  Squire,  who  looked  with 
small  favor  on  these  visits,  was  disposed  to  at 
tribute  them  to  Dave's  lack  of  ardor. 

"Confound  it,  Looizy,"  he  would  say  to  his 
wife,  "if  Dave  made  it  more  lively  for  Kate  she 
would  not  be  fer  flying  off  to  Boston  every  time 
she  got  a  chance." 

And  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  no  answer.  Having  a 
woman's  doubtful  gift  of  intuition,  she  was 
afraid  that  the  wedding  would  never  take  place, 
and  also  having  a  woman's  tact  she  never  an 
noyed  her  husband  by  saying  so. 

Kate,  who  had  been  in  Boston  for  two  months, 
was  coming  home  about  the  middle  of  July,  and 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  77 

a  little  flutter  of  preparation  went  all  over  the 
farnu 

Dave  had  said  at  breakfast  that  he  regretted  not 
being  able  to  go  to  Wakefield  to  meet  Kate,  but 
that  he  would  be  busy  in  the  north  field  all  day. 
Hi  Holler,  the  Bartlett  chore  boy,  had  been  com 
missioned  to  go  in  his  stead,  and  Hi's  toilet,  in 
consequence,  had  occupied  most  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Bartlett  was  churning  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wide  porch,  the  Squire  was  mending  a  horse 
collar  with  wax  thread,  and  fussing  about  the 
heat  and  the  slowness  of  Hi  Holler,  who  was  al 
ways  punctually  fifteen  mintues  late  for  every 
thing. 

"Confound  it,  Looizy,  what's  keeping  that  boy ; 
the  train'll  get  in  before  he's  started.  Here  you, 
Hi,  what's  keeping  you?" 

The  delinquent  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  broad 
face  rippling  with  smiles;  he  had  spent  time  on 
his  toilet,  but  he  felt  that  the  result  justified  it. 

His  high  collar  had  already  begun  to  succumb 
to  the  day,  and  the  labor  involved  in  greasing  his 
boots,  which  were  much  in  evidence,  owing  to  the 
brevity  of  the  white  duck  trousers  that  needed 


78  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

but  one  or  two  more  washings,  with  the  accom 
panying  process  of  shrinking,  to  convert  them 
into  knickerbockers.  Bear's  grease  had  turned 
his  ordinary  curling  brown  hair  into  a  damp, 
shining  mass  that  dripped  in  tiny  rills,  from  time 
to  time,  down  on  his  coat  collar,  but  Hi  was  hap 
py.  Beau  Brummel,  at  the  height  of  his  sartorial 
fame,  never  achieved  a  more  self-satisfying  toilet. 

The  Squire  adjusted  his  spectacles.  "What  are 
you  dressing  up  like  that  on  a  week  day  for,  Hi? 
Off  with  you  now;  and  if  you  ain't  in  time  for 
them  cars  you'll  catch  'Hail  Columbia'  when  you 
get  back." 

"Looizy,"  said  the  Squire,  as  soon  as  Hi  was 
out  of  hearing,  "why  didn't  Dave  go  after  Katie? 
Yes,  I  know  about  the  hay.  Hay  is  hay,  but  it 
ought  not  to  come  first  in  a  man's  affections." 

"You'd  better  let  'em  alone,  Amasy;  if  they're 
going  to  marry  they  will  without  any  help  from 
us;  love  affairs  don't  seem  to  prosper  much,  when 
old  folks  interfere." 

"Looizy,  it's  my  opinion  that  Dave's  too  shy  to 
make  up  to  women  folks.  I  don't  think  he'll  even 
get  up  the  courage  to  ask  Kate  to  marry  him." 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  79 

"Well,  I  never  saw  the  man  yet  who  was  too 
bashful  to  propose  to  the  right  woman."  And  a 

?great  deal  of  decision  went  into  the  churning  that 

/accompanied  her  words. 

"Mebbe  so,  mebbe  so,"  said  the  Squire.  He  felt 
that  the  vagaries  of  the  affections  was  too  deep  a 
subject  for  him.  "Anyhow,  Looizy,  I  don't  want 
no  old  maids  and  bachelors  potterin'  round  this 
farm  getting  cranky  notions  in  their  heads.  Look 
at  the  professor.  Why,  a  good  woman  would 
have  taken  the  nonsense  out  of  him  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Bartlett  did  not  have  to  go  far  to  look  at 
the  professor.  He  was  flying  about  her  front  gar 
den  at  that  very  moment  in  an  apparently  dis 
tracted  state,  crouching,  springing,  hiding  back 
of  bushes  and  reappearing  with  the  startling 
swiftness  of  magic.  The  Bartletts  were  quite 
used  to  these  antics  on  the  part  of  their  well- 
paying  summer  boarder.  He  was  chasing  but 
terflies — a  manifestly  insane  proceeding,  of 
course,  but  if  a  man  could  afford  to  pay  ten  dol 
lars  a  week  for  summer  board  in  the  State  of 
New  Hampshire,  he  could  afford  to  chase  butter 
flies. 


80  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Professor  Sterling  was  an  old  young  man  who 
had  given  up  his  life  to  entomology ;  his  collection 
of  butterflies  was  more  vital  to  him  than  any  liv 
ing  issue;  the  Bartletts  regarded  him  as  a  mild 
order  of  lunatic,  whose  madness  might  have  taken 
a  more  dangerous  form  than  making  up  long 
names  for  every-day  common  bugs. 

"Look  at  him,  just  look  at  him,  Looizy,  sweat 
ing  himself  a  day  like  this,  over  a  common  dusty 
miller.  It  beats  all,  and  with  his  money." 

"Well,  it's  a  harmless  amusement,"  said  the 
kindly  Louisa,  "there's  a  heap  more  harmful 
things  that  a  man  might  chase  than  butterflies." 

The  stillness  of  the  midsummer  day  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  far-off  singing.  It  came  in  full- 
toned  volume  across  the  fields,  the  high  soaring 
of  women's  voices  blended  with  the  deeper  har 
mony  of  men's. 

"What's  that?"  said  the  Squire  testily,  looking 
in  the  direction  of  the  strawberry  beds>  from 
whence  the  singing  came. 

"It's  only  the  berry-pickers,  father,"  said 
David,  coming  through  the  field  gate  and  going 
over  to  the  well  for  a  drink. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  81 

"I  wish  they'd  work  more  and  sing  less,"  said 
the  Squire.  "All  this  singing  business  is  too  pic 
turesque  for  rne." 

"They've  about  finished,  father.  I  came  for  the 
money  to  pay  them  off." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Dave  to  uphold  the 
rights  of  the  berry-pickers.  They  were  all  friends 
of  his,  young  men  and  women  who  sang  in  the 
village  choir  and  who  went  out  among  their 
neighbors'  berry  patches  in  summer,  and  earned  a 
little  extra  money  in  picking  the  fruit.  The  village 
thought  only  the  more  of  them  for  their  thrift, 
and  their  singing  at  the  close  of  their  work  was 
generally  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  favor.  Zeke, 
Sam,  Cynthia  and  Amelia  who  formed  the  quar 
tet,  had  all  fine  voices  and  no  social  function  for 
miles  around  Wakefield  was  complete  without 
their  music. 

The  Squire  said  no  more  about  the  berry-pick 
ers.  Dave  handed  him  a  paper  on  which  the  time 
of  each  berry-picker  and  the  amount  of  his  or  her 
wage  was  marked  opposite.  The  Squire  took  it 
and  adjusted  his  glasses  with  a  certain  grimness 


82  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

— he  was  honest  to  the  core,  but  few  things  came 
harder  to  him  than  parting  with  money. 
J  Dave  and  his  mother  at  the  churn  exchanged  a 
friendly  wink.  The  extracting  of  coin  from  the 
head  of  the  house  was  no  easy  process.  Mother 
and  son  both  enjoyed  its  accomplishment  through 
an  otuside  agency.  It  was  too  hard  a  process  in 
the  home  circle  to  be  at  all  agreeable. 

While  the  Squire  was  wrestling  with  his  arith 
metic,  Dave  noticed  a  strange  girl  pass  by  the 
outer  gate,  pause,  go  on  and  then  return.  He 
looked  at  her  with  deep  interest.  She  was  so  pale 
and  tired-looking  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  not 
strength  enough  left  to  walk  to  the  house.  Her 
long  lashes  rested  wearily  on  the  pale  cheeks. 
She  lifted  them  with  an  effort,  and  Dave  found 
himself  staring  eagerly  in  a  pair  of  great,  sor 
rowful  brown  eyes. 

The  girl  came  on  unsteadily  up  the  walk  to 
where  the  Squire  sat,  thumbing  his  account  to 
the  berry-pickers.  "Well,  girl,  who  are  you?"  he 
said,  not  as  unkindly  as  the  words  might  imply. 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice,  as  she  tried  to 
answer  his  question,  was  like  the  far-off  droning 


I' 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  g3 

of  a  river.  It  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her.  "My 
name  is  Moore — Anna  Moore — and  I  thought — I 
hoped  perhaps  you  might  be  good  enough  to  give 
me  work."  The  strange  faces  spun  about  her 
eyes.  She  tottered  and  would  have  fallen  if  Dave 
had  not  caught  her. 

Dave,  the  silent,  the  slow  of  action,  the  cool- 
headed,  seemed  suddenly  bereft  of  his  chilling 
serenity.  "Here,  mother,  a  chair;  father,  some 
water,  quick."  He  carried  the  swooning  girl  to 
the  shadow  of  the  porch  and  fanned  her  tenderly 
with  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat. 

The  old  people  hastened  to  do  his  bidding. 
Dave,  excited  and  issuing  orders  in  that  tone,  was 
too  unusual  to  be  pased  over  lightly. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say,  Miss  Moore?" 
said  the  Squire  as  soon  as  the  brown  eyes  opened. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  I  might  find  something  to 
do  here — I'm  looking  for  work." 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  smoothing 
the  dark  curls,  "you  are  not  fit  to  stand,  let  alone 
work." 

"You   could   not   earn   your   salt,"   was   the 


g4  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Squire's  less  sympathetic  way  of  expressing  the 
same  sentiment.  "Where  is  your  home?" 

"I  have  no  home."  She  looked  at  them  desper 
ately,  her  dark  eyes  appealing  to  one  and  the 
other,  as  if  they  were  the  jury  that  held  her  life 
in  the  balance.  Only  one  pair  of  eyes  seemed  to 
hold  out  any  hope. 

"If  you  would  only  try  me  I  could  soon  prove 
to  you  that  I  am  not  worthless."  Unconsciously 
she  held  out  her  hand  in  entreaty. 

"Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  all  off  for  Boston  *" 
The  voice  was  Hi's.  He  was  just  turning  in  at 
the  field  gate  with  Kate  beside  him.  Kate,  a 
ravishing  vision,  in  pink  muslin ;  a  smiling,  con 
tented  vision  of  happy,  rosy  girlhood,  coming 
back  to  the  home-nest,  where  a  thousand  wel 
comes  awaited  her. 

"Hello,  every  one!"  she  said,  running  in  and 
kissing  them  in  turn,  "how  nice  it  is  to  be  home." 

They  forgot  the  homeless  stranger  and  her 
pleading  for  shelter  in  their  glad  welcome  to  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  She  had  shrunk  back  into 
the  shadow.  She  had  never  felt  the  desolation, 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  g£ 

the  ufcter  loneliness  of  her  position  so  keenly  be 
fore. 

.  "Hurrah  for  Kate!"  cried  the  Squire,  and 
^everyone  took  it  up  and  gave  three  cheers  for 
Kate  Brewster. 

The  wanderer  withdrew  into  the  deepest 
shadow  of  the  porch,  that  her  alien  presence 
might  not  mar  the  joyous  home-coming  of  Kate 
Brewster.  There  was  no  jealousy  in  her  soul  for 
the  fair  girl  who  had  such  a  royal  welcome  back 
to  the  home-nest.  She  would  not  have  robbed  hel 
of  it  if  such  a  thing  had  been  possible,  but  thtf 
sense  of  her  own  desolation  gripped  at  the  heart 
like  an  iron  band. 

She  waited  like  a  mendicant  to  beg  for  the 
chance  of  earning  her  bread.  That  was  all  she 
asked — the  chance  to  work,  to  eat  the  bread  of 
independence,  and  yet  she  knew  how  slim  the 
chance  was.  She  had  been  wandering  about 
seeking  employment  all  day,  and  no  one  would 
give  it.  ( 

Only  Dave  had  not  forgotten  the  stranger  in 
the  joy  of  Kate's  home-coming.  He  had  wel< 
corned  the  flurry  of  excitement  to  say  a  few 


gg  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

words  to  his  mother,  his  sworn  ally  in  all  the 
little  domestic  plots. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "do  contrive  to  keep  that 
girl.  It  would  be  nothing  short  of  murder  to 
turn  her  out  on  the  highway." 

A  pressure  of  the  motherly  hand  assured  Dave' 
that  he  could  rely  on  her  support. 

"Well,  well,  Katie,"  said  the  Squire  with  his 
arm  around  his  niece's  waist,  "the  old  place  has 
been  lonely  without  you!" 

"Uncle,  who  is  that  girl  on  the  porch?"  she 
asked  in  an  undertone. 

"That  we  don't  know ;  says  her  name  is  Moore, 
and  that  she  wants  work.  Kind  of  sounds  like  a 
fairy  story,  don't  it,  Kate?" 

"Poor  thing,  poor  thing !"  was  Kate's  only  an 
swer. 

"Amasy,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  assuming  all  the 
courage  of  a  rabbit  about  to  assert  itself,  "this 
family  is  bigger  than  it  was  with  Kate  home  and 
the  professor  here,  and  I  am  not  getting  younger 
— I  want  you  to  let  me  keep  this  young  woman 
to  help  me  about  the  house." 

The  Squire  set  his  jaw,  always  an  ominous  sign 


WAY     DOWN     EAST.  87 

to  his  family.  "I  don't  like  this  takin'  strangers, 
folks  we  know  nothing  about;  it's  mighty  suspi 
cious  to  see  a  young  woman  tramping  around  the 
country,  without  a  home,  looking  for  work.  I 
don't  like  it" 

The  girl,  who  sat  apart  while  these  strangers 
considered  taking  her  in,  as  if  she  had  been  a 
friendless  dog,  arose,  her  eyes  were  full  of  unshed 
tears,  her  voice  quivered,  but  pride  supported 
her.  Turning  to  the  Squire,  she  said : 

"You  are  suspicious  because  you  are  blest  with 
both  home  and  family.  My  mother  died  a  few 
months  ago,  I  myself  have  been  ill.  I  make  this 
explanation  not  because  your  kindness  warrants 
it,  sir,  but  because  your  family  would  have  been 
willing  to  take  me  on  faith."  She  bowed  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Bartlett  and  Dave. 

"Well,"  the  Squire  interrupted,  "you  need  not 
go  away  hungry,  you  can  stop  here  and  eat  your 
dinner,  and  then  Hi  Holler  can  take  you  in  the 
wagon  to  the  place  provided  for  such  unfortunate 
cases,  and  where  you'll  have  food  and  shelter." 

"The  poor  farm,  do  you  mean?"  the  girl  said, 


88  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

wildly ;  "no,  no ;  if  you  will  not  give  me  work  I 
will  not  take  your  charity." 

"Father !"  exclaimed  Dave  and  his  mother  to 
gether. 

"Now,  now,"  said  Kate,  going  up  to  the  Squire 
and  putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  "it  seems 
to  me  as  if  my  uncle's  been  getting  a  little  hard 
while  I've  been  away  from  home,  and  I  don't 
think  it  has  improved  him  a  bit.  The  uncle  I  left 
here  had  a  heart  as  big  as  a  house.  What  has  he 
done  with  it?" 

Here  the  professor  came  to  Kate's  aid. 
"Squire,"  said  he,  "isn't  it  written  that  'If  ye  do 
it  unto  the  least  of  these,  ye  do  it  unto  me?' ' 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  Squire,  "when  a  man's 
family  are  against  him,  there's  only  one  thing 
for  him  to  do  if  he  wants  any  peace  of  mind,  and 
that  is  to  come  round  to  their  way,  and  I  ain't 
never  goin'  to  have  it  said  I  went  agin  the 
Bcripter."  He  went  over  to  Anna  and  took  her 
pale,  thin  hand  in  his  great  brown  one. 

"Well,  little  woman,  they  want  you  to  stay, 
and  I  am  not  going  to  interfere.  I  leave  it  to  you 
that  I  won't  live  to  regret  it." 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  gg 

This  time  the  tears  splashed  down  the  pale 
cheeks.  "Dear  sir,  I  thank  you,  and  I  promise 
ryou  shall  never  repent  this  kindess."  Then  turn 
ing  to  the  rest — "I  thank  you  all.  I  can  only  re 
pay  you  by  doing  my  best." 

"Well  said,  well  said,"  and  Kate  gave  her  a 
sisterly  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

Anna  would  not  listen  to  Mrs.  Bartlett's  kind 
suggestion  that  she  should  rest  a  little  while. 
She  went  immediately  to  the  house,  removed  her 
hat,  and  returned  completely  enveloped  in  a  big 
gingham  apron  that  proved  wonderfully  becom 
ing  to  her  dark  beauty — or  was  it  that  the  home 
less,  hunted  look  had  gone  out  of  those  sorrowful 
eyes? 

And  so  Anna  Moore  had  found  a  home  at  last, 
one  in  which  she  would  have  to  work  early  and 
late  to  retain  a  foothold — but  still  a  home,  and 
iflie  word  rang  in  her  ears  like  a  soothing  song, 
after  the  anguish  of  the  last  year.  Her  youth 
and  beauty,  she  had  long  since  discovered,  were 
only  barriers  to  the  surroundings  she  sought. 
There  had  been  many  who  offered  to  help  the 
friendless  girl,  but  their  offers  were  such  that 


90  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

death  seemed  preferable,  by  contrast,  and  Anna 
had  gone  from  place  to  place,  seeking  only  the 
right  to  earn  her  bread,  and  yet,  finding  only 
temptation  and  danger. 

Dave,  passing  out  to  the  barn,  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  regard  her,  as  she  sat  on  the  lowest 
Btep  of  the  porch,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  above 
the  elbow,  working  a  bowl  of  butter.  He  smiled 
at  her  encouragingly — it  was  well  that  none  of 
his  family  saw  it.  Such  a  smile  from  the  shy, 
silent  Dave  might  have  been  a  revelation  to  the 
home  circle. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  91 


CHAPTER  X. 

ANNA  AND  SANDERSON  AGAIN   MEET. 

"B:>aven  has  no  rage  like  love  to  hatred  turn'd 
Nor  hell  a  fury  like  a  woman  scorn'd." 

—  Congreve. 


who  be  you,  with  those  big  brown  eyes, 
sitting  VA  the  Bartlett's  porch  working  that  but 
ter  as  if  you've  been  used  to  handling  butter  all 
your  life?  No  city  girl,  I'm  sure."  Anna  had 
been  at  the  Squire's  for  a  week  when  the  above 
query  was  put  to  her. 

The  voice  was  high  and  rasping.  The  whole 
sentence  was  delivered  without  breath  or  pause, 
as  if  it  was  one  long  word.  The  speaker  might 
have  been  the  old  maid  as  portrayed  in  the  illus 
trated  weekly.  Nothing  was  lacking  —  corkscrew 
curls,  prunella  boots,  cameo  brooch  and  chain,  a 
gown  of  the  antiquated  Kedingote  type,  trimmed 


92  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

with  many  small  ruffles  and  punctuated,  irrele 
vantly,  with  immovable  buttons. 
"I  am  Anna  Moore." 

; 

"Know  as  much  now  as  I  ever  did,"  snapped 
the  interlocutor. 

"I  have  come  to  work  for  Mrs.  Bartlett,  to  help 
her  about  the  house." 

"Land  sakes.  Bartlett's  keeping  help!  How 
stylish  they're  getting." 

"Yes,  Marthy,  we  are  progressing,"  said  Kate, 
coming  out  of  the  house.  "Anna,  this  is  our 
friend,  Miss  Marthy  Perkins." 

The  village  gossip's  confusion  was  but  momen 
tary.  "Do  you  know,  Kate,  I  just  came  over 
a-purpose  to  see  if  you'd  come.  What  kind  of 
clothes  are  they  wearing  in  Boston?  Are  shirt 
waists  going  to  have  tucked  backs  or  plain?  I 
am  going  to  make  over  my  gray  alpaca,  and  I 
wouldn't  put  the  scissors  into  it  till  I  seen  you." 

"Come  upstairs,  Marthy,  and  I'll  show  you  my 
new  shirtwaists." 

"Land  sakes,"  said  the  spinster,  bridling.  "I 
would  be  delighted,  but  you  know  how  I  can't 
move  without  that  Seth  Holcomb  a-taggin'  after 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  93 

me;  it's  just  awful  the  way  I  am  persecuted.  I 
do  wish  I'd  get  old  and  then  there7  d  be  an  end 
of  it."  She  held  out  a  pair  of  mittens,  vintage  of 
1812,  to  Kate,  appealingly. 

Seth  Holcomb  stumped  in  sight  as  she  eon- 
eluded;  he  had  been  Martha's  faithful  admirer 
these  twenty  years,  but  she  would  never  reward 
him;  her  hopes  of  younger  and  less  rheumatic 
game  seemed  to  spring  eternal. 

During  the  few  days  that  Anna  had  made  one 
of  the  Squire's  family  she  went  about  with  deep 
thankfulness  in  her  heart;  she  had  been  given 
the  chance  to  work,  to  earn  her  bread  by  these 
good  people.  Who  could  tell — as  time  went  on 
perhaps  they  would  grow  fond  of  her,  learn  to 
regard  her  as  one  of  themselves — it  was  so  much 
better  than  being  so  utterly  alone. 

Her  energy  never  flagged,  she  did  her  share  of 

,the  work  with  the  light  hand  of  experience  that 

delighted  the  old  housekeeper.    It  was  so  good  to 

feel  a  roof  over  her  head,  aud  to  feel  that  she 

was  earning  her  right  to  it. 

Supper  had  been  cooked,  the  table  laid  and 
everything  was  in  readiness  for  the  family  meal, 


94  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

but  the  old  clock  wanted  five  minutes  of  the  hour; 
the  girl  came  out  into  the  glowing  sunset  to  draw 
a  pail  of  water  from  the  old  well,  but  paused  to 
enjoy  the  scene.  Purple,  gold  and  crimson  was 
the  mantle  of  the  departing  day;  and  all  her 
crushed  and  hopeless  youth  rose,  cheered  by  its 
glory. 

"Thank  God,"  she  murmured  fervently,  "at  last 
I  have  found  a  refuge.  I  am  beginning  life  again. 
The  shadow  of  the  old  one  will  rest  on  me  for 
ever,  but  time  and  work,  the  cure  for  every  grief, 
will  cure  me." 

Her  eyes  had  been  turned  toward  the  west, 
where  the  day  was  going  out  in  such  a  riot  of 
splendor,  and  she  had  not  noticed  the  man  who 
entered  the  gate  and  was  making  his  way  toward 
her,  flicking  his  boots  with  his  riding  crop  as  he 
walked. 

She  turned  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  steps  on 
the  gravel;  in  the  gathering  darkness  neither 
could  see  nor  recognize  the  other  till  they  were 
face  to  face. 

The  woman's  face  blanched,  she  stifled  an  ex 
clamation  of  horror  and  stared  at  him. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  Q£ 

"You !  you  here !" 

It  was  Lennox  Sanderson,  and  the  sight  of  Mm, 
so  suddenly,  in  this  out-of-the-way  place,  made 
her  reel,  almost  fainting  against  the  well-curb. 

He  grabbed  her  arm  and  shook  her  roughly, 
and  said,  "What  are  you  doing  here,  in  this 
place?" 

"I  am  tryipg  to  earn  my  living.  Go,  go,"  she 
whispered. 

"Do  you  think  I  came  here  after  you?"  he 
sneered.  ' '  I  've  come  to  see  the  Squire. ' '  All  the 
selfishness  and  cowardice  latent  in  Sanderson's 
character  were  reflected  in  his  face,  at  that  mo 
ment,  destroying  its  natural  symmetry,  disfigur 
ing  it  with  tell-tale  lines,  and  showing  him  at  his 
par  value — a  weak,  contemptible  libertine, 
brought  to  bay. 

This  meeting  with  his  victim  after  all  these 
long  months  of  silence,  in  this  remote  place,  de 
prived  him,  momentarily,  of  his  customary  poise 
and  equilibrium.  Why  was  she  here?  Would  she 
denounce  him  to  these  people?  What  effect 
.would  it  have?  were  some  of  the  questions  tk\t 


9$  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

whirled  through  his  brain  as  they  stood  together 
in  the  gathering  twilight. 

But  the  shrinking  look  in  her  eyes  allayed  his 
fears.  He  read  terror  in  every  line  of  her  quir- 
ering  figure,  and  in  the  frantic  way  she  clung 
to  the  well-curb  to  increase  the  space  between 
them.  She,  with  the  right  to  accuse,  uncon 
sciously  took  the  attitude  of  supplication.  The 
man  knew  he  had  nothing  to  fear,  and  laid  his 
plans  accordingly. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  come  here  to  look  for 
work,"  he  said,  stooping  over  the  crouching  fig 
ure.  "You've  come  here  to  make  trouble — to 
hound  the  life  out  of  me." 

"Mj  hope  in  coming  here  was  that  I  might 
never  see  you  again.  What  could  I  want  of  you, 
Lennox  Sanderson?" 

The  measured  contempt  of  her  tones  was  not 
without  its  effect.  He  winced  perceptibly,  but 
his  coarse  instincts  rallied  to  his  help  and  again 
he  began  to  bully : 

"Spare  me  the  usual  hard-luck  story  of  the 
deceived  young  woman  trying  to  make  an  honest 
living.  If  you  insist  on  drudging,  it's  your  own 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  97 

fault.  I  offered  to  take  care  of  you  and  provide 
for  your  future,  but  you  received  my  offers  of 
assistance  with  a  'Villain-take-your-gold'  style, 
that  I  was  not  prepared  to  accept.  If,  as  you  say, 
you  never  wish  to  see  me  again,  what  is  simpler 
than  to  go  away?" 

His  cold-blooded  indifference,  his  utter  with 
drawal  from  the  calamity  he  had  brought  upon 
her,  his  airy  suggestion  that  she  should  go  be 
cause  it  suited  his  pleasure  to  remain,  maddened 
Anna.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  pale  cheeks  and 
there  came  her  old  conquering  beauty  with  it. 
She  eyed  him  with  equal  defiance. 

"I  shall  not  go,  because  it  does  not  suit  me." 
And  then  wavering  a  little  at  the  thought  of  her 
wretched  experience — "I  had  too  much  trouble 
finding  a  place  where  an  honest  home  is  offered 
for  honest  work,  to  leave  this  one  for  your  whim. 
No,  I  shall  not  go." 

They  heard  footsteps  moving  about  the  house. 
A  lamp  shone  out  from  the  dining-room  window. 
The  Squire's  voice,  inquiring  for  Kate,  came 
across  to  them  on  the  still  summer  air.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  pale,  determined  faces* 


gg  WAY     DOWN    EAST. 

Which,  would  yield?  It  was  the  old  struggle  be 
tween  the  sexes — a  struggle  old  as  earth,  unset 
tled  as  chaos. 

Which  should  yield?  The  man  who  had  sinned 
much,  or  the  woman  who  had  loved  much? 

Sanderson  employed  all  the  force  of  his  bru 
tality  to  frighten  Anna  into  yielding.  "See  here," 
and  he  caught  her  arm  in  no  uncertain  grasp. 
"You've  got  to  go.  You  can't  stay  here  in  the 
same  place  with  me.  If  money  is  what  you  want, 
you  shall  have  it ;  but  you've  got  to  go.  Do  you 
understand?  Go!" 

He  had  emphasized  his  words  by  tightening 
the  grip  on  her  arm,  and  the  pain  of  it  well  nigh 
made  her  cry  out.  He  relaxed  his  hold  just  as 
Hi  Holler  came  out  on  the  porch,  seized  the  sup 
per  horn  and  blew  it  furiously.  The  Squire  came 
down  and  looked  amazed  at  the  smartly  dressed 
young  city  man  talking  to  Anna, 

"Squire,"  she  said,  taking  the  initiative,  "this 
gentleman  is  inquiring  for  you." 

On  hearing  the  Squire's  footsteps,  Sanderson 
turned  to  him  with  all  the  cordiality  at  his  com 
mand,  and,  slapping  him  on  the  back,  said :  "Hel- 


SANDERSON— "YOU'VE  GOT  TO  GO."— Page  98. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  99 

lo,  Squire>  I've  just  ridden  over  to  talk  to  you 
about  your  prize  Jersey  heifer."  The  Squire  had 
only  met  Sanderson  once  or  twice  before,  and 
that  was  prior  to  Kate's  visit  to  Boston;  but  he 
knew  all  about  the  young  man  who  had  become 
his  neighbor. 

Lennox  Sanderson  was  a  lucky  fellow,  and' 
while  waiting  impatiently  for  his  father  to  start 
him  in  life,  his  uncle,  the  judge,  died  and  men 
tioned  no  one  but  Lennox  Sanderson  in  his  will. 

The  Squire  had  known  the  late  Judge  San 
derson,  the  "big  man"  of  the  county,  very  well, 
and  lost  no  time  in  cultivating  the  acquaintance 
of  the  judge's  nephew,  who  had  fallen  heir  to  the 
fine  property  the  judge  had  accumulated,  no 
small  part  of  which  was  the  handsome  "country 
seat"  of  the  judge  in  the  neighborhood. 

That  is  how  this  fine  young  city  man  happened 
to  drop  in  on  the  Squire  so  unceremoniously. 
He  had  learned  of  Kate's  return  from  Boston 
and  was  hastening  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
pretty  girl.  To  say  he  was  astounded  to  find 
Anna  on  the  spot  is  putting  it  mildly.  He  be 
lieved  she  had  learned  of  his  good  fortune  and 


100  WAY     DOWN     EAST. 

had  followed  -Aim,  to  make  disagreeable  exac 
tions.  It  put  him  in  a  rage  and  it  cost  him  a 
strong  effort  to  conceal  it  before  the  Squire. 

"Walk  right  in,"  said  the  Squire,  beaming  witfc 
hospitality.  Sanderson  entered  and  the  girl 
found  herself  alone  in  the  twilight.  Anna  sat  on^ 
the  bench  by  the  well-curb  and  faced  despair. 
She  was  physically  so  weak  from  her  long  and 
recent  illness  that  the  unexpected  interview  with 
Sanderson  left  her  faint  and  exhausted.  The  mo 
mentary  flare  up  of  her  righteous  indignation  at 
Sanderson's  outrageous  proposition  that  she 
should  go  away  had  sapped  her  strength  and  she 
made  ready  to  meet  one  of  the  great  crises  of  life 
with  nerveless,  trembling  body  and  a  mind  in 
capable  of  action. 

She  pressed  her  throbbing  head  on  the  cool 
stones  of  the  well-curb  and  prayed  for  light. 
What  could  she  do — where  could  she  go?  Her 
fate  rose  up  before  her  like  a  great  stone  prison 
wall  at  which  she  beat  with  naked  bleeding  hand 
and  the  stones  still  stood  in  all  their  mightiness. 

Hdw  could  she  cope  with  such  heartless  cruelty 
as  that  of  Sanderson?  All  that  she  had  asked  for 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

was  an  honest  roof  in  return  for  honest  toil.  And 
there  are  so  few  such,  thought  the  helpless  girl, 
remembering  with  awful  vividness  her  efforts  to 
find  work  and  the  pitfalls  and  barriers  that  had. 
been  put  in  her  way,  often  in  the  guise  of  f rieadly 
interest. 

She  could  not  go  out  and  face  it  all  over  again. 
It  was  so  bleak — so  bleak.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  place  in  the  great  world  that  she  could  fill, 
no  one  stood  in  need  of  her  help,  no  one  required 
her  services.  They  had  no  faith  in  her  story  that 
she  was  looking  for  work  and  had  no  home. 

"What,  a  good-looking  young  girl  like  you! 
What,  no  home?  No,  no;  we  don't  need  you,"  or 
the  other  frightful  alternative. 

And  yet  she  must  go.  Sanderson  was  right. 
She  could  not  stay  where  he  was.  She  must  go. 
But  where? 

She  could  hear  his  voice  in  the  dining-room, 
entertaining  them  all  with  his  inimitable  gift  of 
story-telling.  And  then,  their  laughter — peal  on 
peal  of  it — and  his  voice  cutting  in,  with  its  well- 
bred  modulation :  "Yes,  I  thought  it  was  a  pretty 
good  story  myself,  even  if  the  joke  was  on  me." 


102  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

And  again  their  laughter  and  applause.  She  had 
no  weapons  with  which  to  fight  such  cold-blooded 
selfishness.  To  stay  meant  eternal  torture.  She 
saw  herself  forced  to  face  his  complacent  sneer 
day  after  day  and  death  on  the  roadside  seemed 
preferable. 

She  tried  to  face  the  situation  in  all  its  pitiful 
reality,  but  the  injustice  of  it  cried  out  for  ven 
geance  and  she  could  not  think.  She  could  only 
bury  her  throbbing  temples  in  her  hands  and 
murmur  over  and  over  again :  "It  is  all  wrong." 

David  found  her  thus,  as  he  made  his  way  to 
the  house  from  the  barn,  where  he  had  been  de 
tained  later  than  the  others.  When  he  saw  her 
forlorn  little  figure  huddled  by  the  well-curb  in 
an  attitude  of  absolute  dejection,  he  could  not 
go  on  without  saying  some  word  of  comfort. 

"Miss  Anna,"  he  said  very  gently,  "I  hope  you 
are  not  going  to  be  homesick  with  us." 

She  lifted  a  pale,  tear-stained  face,  on  which 
the  lines  of  suffering  were  written  far  in  advance, 
of  her  years. 

"It  does  not  matter,  Mr.  David,"  she  answered 
him,  "I  am  going  away." 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  103 

-'No,  no,  you  are  not  going  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind,"  he  said  gently;  "the  work  seems  hard 
to-day  because  it  is  new,  but  in  a  day  or  two  you 
will  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  to  us.  We  may 
seem  a  bit  hard  and  unsympathetic ;  I  can  see  you 
are  not  used  to  our  ways  of  living,  and  looking  at 
things,  but  we  are  sincere,  and  we  want  you  to 
stay  with  us;  indeed,  we  do." 

She  gave  him  a  wealth  of  gratitude  from  her 
beautiful  brown  eyes.  "It  is  not  that  I  find  the 
place  hard,  Mr.  David.  Every  one  has  been  sa 
kind  to  me  that  I  would  be  glad  to  stay,  but — 
but " 

He  did  not  press  her  for  her  reason.  "You 
have  been  ill,  I  believe  you  said?" 

"Yes,  very  ill  indeed,  and  there  are  not  many 
who  would  give  work  to  a  delicate  girl.  Oh,  I 

am  sorry  to  go "  She  broke  off  wildly,  and 

the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Miss  Anna,  when  one  is  ill,  it's  hard  to  knovr 
what  is  best.  Don't  make  up  your  mind  just  yet. 
Stay  for  a  few  days  and  give  us  a  trial,  and  justs 
call  on  me  when  you  want  a  bucket  of  water  or 
anything  else  that  taxes  your  strength." 


104l  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

She  tried  to  answer  him  but  could  not  They 
were  the  first  words  of  real  kindness,  after  all 
these  months  of  sorrow  and  loneliness,  and  they 
broke  down  the  icy  barrier  that  seemed  to  have 
enclosed  her  heart.  She  bent  her  head  and  wept 
silently.  " 

"There,  there,  little  woman,"  he  said,  patting 
her  shoulder  when  he  would  have  given  anything 
to  put  his  arm  around  her  and  offer  her  the  devo 
tion  of  his  life.  But  Dave  had  a  good  bit  of  hard 
common  sense  under  his  hat,  and  he  knew  that 
such  a  declaration  would  only  hasten  her  depart 
ure  and  the  wise  young  man  continued  to  be 
brotherly,  to  urge  her  to  stay  for  his  mother's 
sake,  and  because  it  was  so  hard  for  a  young 
woman  to  find  the  proper  kind  of  a  home,  and 
really  she  was  not  a  good  judge  of  what  was  best 
for  her. 

And  Anna,  whose  storm-swept  soul  was  so 
weary  of  beating  against  the  rocks,  listened  and 
made  up  her  mind  to  enjoy  th-s  wholesome  com 
panionship  of  these  good  people,  for  a  little  while 
at  least 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  XL 

RUSTIC  HOSPITALITY. 

*Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale." 

— Goldsmith. 

SANDERSON'S  clothes,  his  manner,  his  slightly 
English  accent,  were  all  so  many  items  in  a  good 
letter  of  credit  to  those  simple  people.  The 
Squire  was  secretly  proud  at  having  a  city  man 
like  young  Sanderson  for  a  neighbor.  It  would 
•  unquestionably  add  tone  to  Wakefield  society. 

Kate  regarded  him  with  the  frank  admiration 
of  a  young  woman  who  appreciates  a  smart  ap 
pearance,  good  manner,  and  the  indefinable  some 
thing  that  goes  to  make  up  the  ensemble  of  the 
man  of  the  world.  He  could  say  nothing,  clev- 


10(5  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

erly;  he  had  little  subleties  of  manner  that  put 
the  other  men  she  had  met  to  poor  advantage  be 
side  him.  On  the  night  in  question  the  Squire  was 
giving  a  supper  in  honor  of  the  berry-pickers 
who  had  helped  to  gather  in  the  crop  the  week 
befora  Afterwards,  they  would  sing  the  sweet, 
homely  songs  that  all  the  village  loved,  and  then 
troop  home  by  moonlight  to  the  accompaniment 
of  their  own  music. 

"Well,  Mr.  Sanderson,"  said  the  Squire,  "sup 
pose  you  stay  to  supper  with  us.  See,  we've  lots 
of  good  company" — and  he  waved  his  hand,  indi 
cating  the  different  groups,  "and  we'll  talk  about 
the  stock  afterwards." 

He  accepted  their  invitation  to  supper  with 
flattering  alacrity;  they  were  so  good  to  take  pity 
on  a  solitaire,  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  such  a  fa 
mous  housekeeper;  he  had  heard  of  her  apple- 
pies  in  Boston.  Dave  scented  patronage  in  his 
"citified"  air;  he  and  other  young  men  at  the 
table — young  men  who  helped  about  the  farm — 
resented  everything  about  the  stranger  from  the 
self-satisfied  poise  of  his  head  to  the  aggressive 
gloss  on  his  riding-boots* 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

"Why,  Dave,"  said  Kate  to  her  cousin  in  an 
undertone,  "you  look  positively  fierce.  If  I  had 
a  particle  of  vanity  I  should  say  you  were  jeal 
ous." 

"When  I  get  jealous,  Kate,  it  will  be  of  a  man, 
not  of  a  tailor's  sign." 

"Say,  Miss  Kate,"  said  Hi  Holler,  "they're  a 
couple  of  old  lengths  of  stove-pipes  out  in  the 
loft;  I'm  going  to  polish  'em  up  for  leggins. 
Darned  if  I  let  any  city  dude  get  ahead  o'  me." 

"The  green-eyed  monster  is  driving  you  all 
crazy,"  laughed  Kate,  in  great  good  humor.  "The 
girls  don't  seem  to  find  any  fault  with  him." 
Cynthia  and  Amelia  were  both  regarding  him 
with  admiring  glances. 

Dave  turned  away  in  some  impatience.  Invol 
untarily  his  eyes  sought  out  Anna  Moore  to  see 
if  she,  too,  was  adding  her  quota  of  admiration 
to  the  stranger's  account.  But  Anna  had  no  eyes 
or  ears  for  anything  but  the  business  of  the  mo 
ment,  which  was  attending  to  the  Squire's  guests. 
Evidently  one  woman  could  retain  her  senses  in 
the  presence  of  this  tailor's  figure.  Dave's  admi 
ration  of  Anna  went  up  several  points. 


,108  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

She  slipped  about  as  quietly  as  a  spirit,  remov 
ing  and  replacing  dishes  with  exquisite  deftness. 
>Even  the  Squire  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that 
'she  was  a  great  acquisition  to  the  household.  She 
neither  sought  to  avoid  nor  to  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  Sanderson ;  she  waited  on  him  attentively 
and  unobtrusively  as  she  would  have  waited  on 
any  other  guest  at  the  Squire's  table.  The  Squire 
and  Sanderson  retired  to  the  porch  to  discuss  the 
purchase  of  the  stock,  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  and 
Anna  set  to  work  to  clear  away  the  dishes.  Kate 
excused  herself  from  assisting,  as  she  had  to  as 
sume  the  position  as  hostess  and  soon  had  the 
church  choir  singing  in  its  very  best  style.  Song 
after  song  rang  out  on  the  clear  summer  air.  It 
was  a  treat  not  likely  to  be  forgotten  soon  by  the 
listeners.  All  the  members  of  the  choir  had  what 
is  known  as  "natural  talent,"  joined  to  which 
i>there  was  a  very  fair  amount  of  cultivation,  and 
the  result  was  music  of  a  most  pleasing  type, 
music  that  touches  the  heart — not  a  mere  display 
of  vocal  gymnastics. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  festivities,  the  sound 
of  wheels  was  heard,  and  the  cracked  voice  of 


WAY    B9WN     EAST.  109 

Kube  Whipple,  the  town  constable,  urging  his 
ancient  nag  to  greater  speed,  issued  out  of  the 
darkness.  Rube  was  what  is  known  as  a  "charac 
ter."  He  had  held  the  office,  which  on  account  of 
being  associated  with  him  had  become  a  sort  of 
municipal  joke,  in  the  earliest  recollections  of  the 
oldest  inhabitants.  He  apparently  got  no  older. 
For  the  past  fifty  years  he  had  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  ready  to  totter  into  the  grave  at  any 
moment,  but  he  took  it  out  apparently,  in  attend 
ing  to  other  people's  funerals  instead.  His  voice 
was  cracked,  he  walked  with  a  limp,  and  his 
clothes,  Hi  Holler  said :  "was  the  old  suit  Noah 
left  in  the  ark." 

The  choir  had  just  finished  singing  "Bock  of 
Ages"  as  the  constable  turned  his  venerable  piece 
of  horseflesh  into  the  front  yard. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  like  a  grapho- 
phone  bady  in  need  of  repair,  "I  might  have 
knowed  it  was  the  choir  kicking  up  all  that  rum 
pus.  Heard  the  row  clear  up  to  the  postoffice, 
and  thought  I'd  come  up  to  see  if  anyone  was  get 
ting  murdered." 

"Thought  you'd  be  on  the  spot  for  once,  did  you, 


HO  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

Rubef  inquired  Hi  Holler.  "Well,  seeing  you're 
here,  we  might  accommodate  you,  by  getting  up 
a  murder,  or  a  row,  or  something.  'Twould  be 
too  bad  to  have  nothing  happen,  seeing  you  are 
on  hand  for  once." 

The  choir  joined  heartily  in  the  laugh  on  the 
constable,  who  waited  till  it  had  subsided  and 
then  said : 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  jailing  all  of 
you  for  disturbing  the  public  peace.  There's  law 
for  it — 'disturbin'  the  public  peace  with  strange 
sounds  at  late  and  unusual  hours  of  the  night.' ' 

"All  right,  constable,"  said  Cynthia,  "I  sup 
pose  you'll  drive  us  to  jail  in  that  rig  o'  yourn. 
I'd  be  willing  to  stay  there  six  months  for  the 
sake  o'  driving  behind  so  spry  a  piece  of  horse 
flesh  as  that." 

"'Tain't  the  horseflesh  she's  after,  constable, 
it's  the  driver.  Everyone  'round  here  knows  how 
Cynthia  dew  admire  you." 

"Professional  jealousy  is  what's  at  the  bottom 
of  this/'  declared  Kate,  "the  choir  is  jealous  of 
Uncle  Rube's  reputation  as  a  singer,  and  Uncle 
Rube  does  not  care  for  the  choir's  new-fangled 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

methods  of  singing.  Rivalry !  Rivalry !  That's 
what  the  matter." 

"That's  right,  Miss  Kate,"  squeaked  the  con 
stable,  "they're  jealous  of  my, singing.  There 
ain't  one  of  'em,  with  all  their  scaling,  and 
do-re-mi-ing  can  touch  me.  If  I  turned  profes 
sional  to-day,  I'd  make  more'n  all  of  'em  put  to 
gether." 

"That's  cause  they'd  pay  you  to  quit.  Ha,  ha/ 
said  Hi  Holler. 

And  so  the  evening  passed  with  the  banter  that 
invariably  took  place  when  Rube  was  of  the 
party.  It  was  late  when  they  left  the  Squire's, 
the  constable  going  along  with  them,  and  all  sing 
ing  merrily  as  birds  on  a  summer  morning. 

David  went  out  under  the  stars  and  smoked 
innumerable  pipes,  but  they  did  not  give  their 
customary  solace  to-night.  There  was  an  up 
heaval  going  on  in  his  well  regulated  mind. 
"Who  was  she?  What  was  the  mystery  about 
her?  How  did  a  girl  like  that  come  to  be  tramp 
ing  about  the  country  looking  for  work?"  Her 
manner  of  speaking,  the  very  intonations  of  her 
voice,  her  choice  of  words,  all  proclaimed  her 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

from  a  different  world  from  theirs.  He  had  no 
ticed  her  hands,  white  and  fragile,  and  her  small 
delicate  wrists.  They  did  not  belong  to  a  work 
ing  woman. 

And  her  eyes,  that  seemed  to  hold  the  sorrows 
of  centuries  in  their  liquid  depths.  What  was 
the  mystery  of  it  all?  And  that  insolent  city 
chap !  What  a  look  he  had  given  her.  The  mem 
ory  of  it  made  Dave's  hands  come  together  as  if 
he  were  strangling  something.  But  it  was  all  too 
deep  for  him.  The  lights  glimmered  in  the  rooms 
upstairs.  His  father  walked  to  the  outer  gate  to 
say  good-night  to  Mr.  Sanderson — and  he  tried 
to  justify  the  feeling  of  hatred  he  felt  toward 
Sanderson,  but  could  not.  The  sound  of  a  shut 
ter  being  drawn  in,  caused  him  to  look  up.  Anna 
leaned  out  in  the  moonlight  for  a  moment  before 
drawing  in  the  blind.  Dave  took  off  his  hat — it 
was  an  unconscious  act  of  reverence.  The  next 
moment,  the  grave,  shy  countryman  had  smiled 
at  his  sentimentality.  The  shutters  closed  and 
all  was  dark,  but  Dave  continued  to  think  and 
smoke  far  into  the  night 

The  days  slipped  by  in  pleasant  and  even  tenw. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

The  summer  burned  itself  out  in  a  riot  of  glorious 
colors,  the  harvest  was  gathered  in,  and  the  ripe 
apples  fell  from  the  trees — and  there  was  a  wail 
of  coming  winter  to  the  night  wind.  Anna  Moore 
had  made  her  place  in  the  Bartlett  family.  The 
Squire  could  not  imagine  how  he  ever  got  along 
without  her;  she  always  thought  of  everyone's 
comfort  and  remembered  their  little  individual 
likes  and  dislikes,  till  the  whole  household  grew 
to  depend  on  her. 

But  she  never  spoke  of  herself  nor  referred  to 
her  family,  friends  or  manner  of  living,  before 
coming  to  the  Bartlett  farm. 

When  she  had  first  come  among  them,  her 
beauty  had  caused  a  little  ripple  of  excitement 
among  the  neighbors ;  the  young  men,  in  particu 
lar,  were  all  anxious  to  take  her  to  husking  beea 
and  quilting  parties,  but  she  always  had  some 
excellent  excuse  for  not  going,  and  while  her  re 
fusals  were  offered  with  the  utmost  kindness, 
there  was  a  quiet  dignity  about  the  girl  that  made 
any  attempt  f%t  rustic  playfulness  or  familiarity 
impossible. 

Sanderson  c^me  to  the  house  from  time  to  time, 


H4,  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

but  Anna  treated  him  precisely  as  she  would  have 
treated  any  other  young  man  who  came  to  the 
Squire's.  She  was  the  family  "help,"  her  duty 
stopped  in  announcing  the  guests — or  sometimes, 
and  then  she  felt  that  fate  had  been  particularly 
cruel — in  waiting  on  him  at  table. 

Once  or  twice  when  Sanderson  had  found  her 
alone,  he  had  attempted  to  speak  to  her.  But 
She  silenced  him  with  a  look  that  sent  him  away 
cowering  like  a  wrhipped  cur.  If  he  had  any  inter 
est  in  any  member  of  the  Squire's  family,  Anna 
did  not  notice  it.  He  was  an  ugly  scar  on  her 
memory,  and  when  not  actually  in  his  presence 
she  tried  to  forget  that  he  lived. 


IWAY    DOWN    EAST.  115 


CHAPTER  XII. 

KATE  BEEWSTER  HOLDS  SANDERSON^  ATTENTION. 

"A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Incapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy." 

— Shakespeare. 

IT  was  perhaps  owing  to  the  fact  that  Ani*a 
strove  hourly  to  eliminate  the  memory  of  Lennox 
Sanderson  from  her  life,  that  she  remained 
wholly  unaware  of  that  which  every  member  of 
the  Squire's  household  was  beginning  to  notice : 
namely,  that  Lennox  Sanderson  was  becoming 
daily  more  attentive  to  Kate  Brewster. 

She  had  more  than  once  hazarded  a  guess  on 
why  a  man  of  Sanderson's  tastes  should  care  to 
remain  in  so  quiet  a  neighborhood,  but  could  ar 
rive  at  no  solution  of  the  case.  In  discussing  himj 
she  had  heard  the  Bartletts  quote  his  reason,  that 


116  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

he  was  studying  practical  farming,  and  later  on 
intended  to  take  it  up,  on  a  large  scale,  When 
she  had  first  seen  him  at  the  Squire's,  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  that  it  would  be  better  for  her 
to  go  away,  but  the  memory  of  the  homeless  wan 
derings  she  had  endured  after  her  mother's  death,1 
filled  her  with  terror,  and  after  the  first  shock  of 
seeing  Sanderson,  she  concluded  that  it  was  bet 
ter  to  remain  where  she  was,  unless  he  should 
attempt  to  force  his  society  on  her,  in  which  case 
she  would  have  to  go,  if  she  died  by  the  wayside. 
Dave  was  coming  across  the  fields  late  one  au 
tumn  afternoon  when  he  saw  Anna  at  the  well, 
trying  with  all  her  small  strength  to  draw  up  a 
bucket  of  water.  The  well — one  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  kind  that  worked  by  a  "sweep"  and  pole,  at 
the  end  of  which  hung  "the  old  oaken  bucket'' 
which  Anna  drew  up  easily  till  the  last  few  feet 
and  then  found  it  was  hard  work.  She  had  both 
hands  on  the  iron  bale  of  the  bucket  and  was 
panting  a  little,  when  a  deep,  gentle  voice  said 
in  her  ear :  "Let  go,  little  woman,  that's  too 
heavy  for  you."  And  she  felt  the  bucket  taken 
forcibly  out  of  her  hand. 


WAY    B©WN     BAST. 

"Never  mind  me,  Mr.  David,"  she  said,  giving 
way  reluctantly. 

,    "Always  at  some  hard  work  or  other,"  he  said ; 
"you  won't  quit  till  you  get  laid  up  sick." 

He  filled  the  water-pail  from  the  bucket  fox 
her,  which  she  took  up  and  was  about  to  go  when 
he  found  courage  to  say : 

"Won't  you  stay  a  minute,  Anna,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you. 

"Anna,  have  you  any  relatives?" 

"Not  now." 

"But  have  you  no  friends  who  knew  you  and 
loved  you  before  you  came  to  us?" 

"I  want  nothing  of  my  friends,  Mr.  David,  but 
their  good  will." 

"Anna,  why  will  you  persist  in  cutting  yourself 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  like  this?  You  are 
too  good,  too  womanly  a  girl,  to  lead  this  color 
less  kind  of  an  existence  forever." 

She  looked  at  him  pleadingly  out  of  her  beau 
tiful  eyes.  * '  Mr.  David,  you  would  not  be  inten 
tionally  cruel  to  me,  I  know,  so  don't  speak  to  me 
of  these  things.  It  only  distresses  me — and  can 
io  you  no  good." 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"Forgive  me,  Anna,  I  would  not  hurt  you  for 
the  world — but  you  must  know  that  I  love  you. 
Don't  you  think  you  could  ever  grow  to  care  for 
me?" 

"Mr.  David,  I  shall  never  marry  any  one.  Do 
not  ask  me  to  explain,  and  I  beg  of  you,  if  you 
have  a  feeling  of  even  ordinary  kindness  for  me, 
that  you  will  never  mention  this  subject  to  me 
again.  You  remember  how  I  promised  your  fa 
ther  that  if  he  would  let  me  make  my  home  with 
you,  he  should  never  live  to  regret  it?  Do  you 
think  that  I  intend  to  repay  the  dearest  wish  of 
his  heart  in  this  way?  Why,  Mr.  David,  you  are 
engaged  to  marry  Kate. ' '  She  took  up  the  water- 
pail  to  go. 

"Kate's  one  of  the  best  girls  alive,  but  I  feel 
toward  her  like  a  brother.  Besides,  Anna,  what 
have  you  been  doing  with  those  big  brown  eyes 
of  yours?  Don't  you  see  that  Kate  and  Lennox 
Sanderson  are  head  over  heels  in  love  with  each 
other?" 

The  pail  of  water  slipped  from  Anna's  hand 
and  sent  a  flood  over  David's  boots. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  H9 

•'No,  no — anything  but  that !  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying !" 

Dave  looked  at  her  in  absolute  amazement.  He 
had  no  chance  to  reply.  As  if  in  answer  to  his 
remark,  there  came  through  the  outer  gate,  Kate 
and  Sanderson  arm  in  arm.  They  had  been  gath 
ering  golden-rod,  and  their  arms  were  full  of  the 
glory  of  autumn. 

There  was  a  certain  assumption  of  proprietary 
right  in  the  way  that  Sanderson  assisted  Kate 
with  the  golden-rod  that  Anna  recognized.  She 
knew  it,  and  falseness  of  it  burned  through  her 
like  so  much  corrosive  acid.  She  stood  with  the 
upturned  pail  at  her  feet,  unable  to  recover  her 
composure,  her  bosom  heaving  high,  her  eyes  di 
lating.  She  stood  there,  wild  as  a  startled 
panther,  uncertain  whether  to  fight  or  fly. 

"You  don't  know  what  a  good  time  we've  been 
having,1'  Kate  called  out. 

"You  see,  Anna  dear,  I  was  right,"  David  said 
to  her. 

But  Anna  did  not  answer.  Sorrow  had  broken 
her  on  its  wheel.  Where  was  the  justice  of  it? 
Why  should  he  go  forth  to  seek  his  happiness — • 


120  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

and  find  it — and  she  cower  in  shame  through  all 
the  years  to  come? 

Dave  saw  that  she  had  forgotten  his  presence; 
'she  stood  there  in  the  gathering  night  with  wild, 
unseeing  eyes.  Memory  had  turned  back  the 
hands  of  the  clock  till  it  pointed  out  that  fatal 
hour  on  another  golden  afternoon  in  autumn,  and 
Sanderson,  the  hero  of  the  hour,  had  come  to  her 
with  the  marks  of  battle  still  upon  him,  and  as 
the  crowd  gave  away  for  him,  right  and  left,  he 
had  said:  "I  could  not  help  winning  with  your 
eyes  on  me." 

Oh,  the  lying  dishonor  of  it !  It  was  not  jeal 
ousy  that  prompted  her,  for  a  moment,  to  go  to 
Kate  and  tell  her  all.  What  right  had  such  vul 
tures  as  he  to  be  received,  smiled  upon,  courted, 
caressed?  If  there  was  justice  on  earth,  his  sin 
should  have  been  branded  on  him,  that  other 
women  might  take  warning. 

Dave  knew  that  her  thoughts  had  flown  miles 
wide  of  him,  and  his  unselfishness  told  him  that 
it  would  be  kindness  to  go  into  the  house  and 
leave  her  to  herself,  which  he  did  with  a  heavy 
6eart  and  many  misgivings. 


WAY    B9WN    EAST. 

Hi  Holler  had  none  of  Dave's  sensitiveness.  He 
saw  Anna  standing  by  the  gate,  and  being  a 
loquacious  soul,  who  saw  no  advantage  in  si 
lence,  if  there  was  a  fellow  creature  to  talk  to, 
he  came  up  grinning :  "Say,  Anna,  I  wonder  if 
me  and  you  was  both  thinkin'  about  the  same 
thing — I  was  thinkin'  as  I  seen  Sanderson  and 
Kate  passin',  that  I  certainly  would  enjoy  a  piece 
o'  weddin'  cake,  don't  care  whose  it  was." 

"No,  Hi,"  Anna  said,  being  careful  to  restrain 
any  bitterness  of  tone,  "I  certainly  was  not  wish* 
ing  for  a  wedding  cake." 

"I  certainly  do  like  wedding  cake,  Anna,  but 
then,  I  like  everything  to  eat.  Some  folks  don't 
like  one  thing,  some  folks  don't  like  another. 
Difference  between  them  an'  me  is,  I  like  every 
thing." 

Anna  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Yes,  since  I  like  everything,  and  I  like  it  all 
the  time,  why,  I  ain't  more  than  swallowed  the 
last  buckwheat  for  breakfast,  than  I  am  ready  for 
dinner.  You  don't  s'pose  I'm  sick  or  anything, 
do  you,  Anna?" 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"I  don't  think  the  symptoms  sound  alarming, 
Hi." 

"Well,  you  take  a  load  off  my  mind,  Anua, 
cause  I  was  getting  scared  about  myself."  See 
ing  the  empty  water-pail,  Hi  refilled  it  and  car 
ried  it  in  the  house  for  Anna.  Dave  was  not  the 
only  one  in  that  household  who  was  miserable, 
owing  to  Cupid's  unaccountable  antics.  Profes 
sor  Sterling,  the  well-paying  summer  boarder, 
continued  to  remain  with  the  Bartletts,  though 
summer,  the  happy  season  during  which  the  rus 
tic  may  square  his  grudge  with  the  city  man 
within  his  gates,  had  long  since  passed. 

The  professor  had  spared  enough  time  from  his 
bugs  and  beetles  to  notice  how  blue  Kate's  eyes 
were,  and  how  luxurious  her  hair;  then  he  had 
also,  with  some  misgivings,  regarded  his  own  in 
the  mirror,  with  the  unassuring  result  that  his 
hair  was  thinning  on  top  and  his  eyes  looked  old 
through  his  gold-bowed  spectacles. 

The  discovery  did  not  meet  with  the  indiffer 
ence  one  might  have  expected  on  the  part  of  the 
conscientious  entomologist.  He  fell  even  to  the 
depths  of  reading  hair-restoring  circulars  and  he 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

spent  considerable  time  debating  whether  he 
should  change  his  spectacles  for  a  pince-nez. 

The  spectacles,  however,  continued  to  do  their 
work  nobly  for  the  professor,  not  only  assisting 
him  to  make  his  scientific  observations  on  the 
habits  of  a  potato-bug  in  captivity,  but  showing 
him  with  far  more  clearness  that  Kate  Brewster 
and  Lennox  Sanderson  contrived  to  spend  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  each  other's  society,  and  that  both 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  time  thus  spent. 

The  professor  went  back  to  his  beetles,  but  they 
palled.  The  most  gorgeous  butterfly  ever  con 
structed  had  not  one-tenth  the  charm  for  him 
that  was  contained  in  a  glance  of  Kate  Brew 
ster  's  eyes,  or  a  glimpse  of  her  golden  head  as  she 
flitted  about  the  house.  And  so  the  autumn 
waned. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST- 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY. 

"Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woa 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me." 

— Pope. 

SANDERSON,  during  his  visits  to  the  Bartlett 
farm — and  they  became  more  frequent  as  time 
went  on — would  look  at  Anna  with  cold  curiosity, 
not  unmixed  with  contempt,  when  by  chance  they 
happened  to  be  alone  for  a  moment.  But  the  girl 
never  displayed  by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  an 
eye-lash  that  she  had  ever  seen  him  before. 

Had  Lennox  Sanderson  been  capable  of  fath 
oming  Anna  Moore,  or  even  of  reading  her  pres 
ent  marble  look  or  tone,  he  would  have  seen  t&at 
he  had  little  to  apprehend  from  her  beyond  con- 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  125 

tempt,  a  thing  lie  would  not  in  the  least  have 
minded;  but  he  was  cunning,  and  like  the  cun- 
\ning  shallow.  So  he  began  to  formulate  plans 
for  making  things  even  with  Anna — in  other 
words,  buying  her  off. 

His  admiration  for  Kate  deepened  in  propor 
tion  as  the  square  of  that  young  woman's  reserve 
increased.  She  was  not  only  the  first  woman  who 
refused  to  burn  incense  at  his  shrine,  but  also  the 
first  who  frankly  admitted  that  she  found  him 
amusing.  She  mildly  guyed  his  accent,  his  man 
ner  of  talking,  his  London  clothes,  his  way  of 
looking  at  things.  Never  having  lived  near  a  uni 
versity  town,  she  escaped  the  traditional  hero 
worship.  It  was  a  new  sensation  for  Sanderson, 
and  eventually  he  succumbed  to  it. 

"You  know,  Miss  Kate,"  he  said  one  day,  "you 
are  positively  the  most  refreshing  girl  I  have 
ever  met.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  love  you,"' 

Kate  considered  for  a  moment.  There  was  a 
hint  of  patronage,  it  seemed  to  her,  in  his  com 
pliment,  that  she  did  not  care  for/' 

"Oh,  consider  the  debt  cancelled,  Mr.  Sander 
son.  You  have  not  found  my  rustic  simplicity 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 


any  more  refreshing  than  I  have  found  your 
ter  waistcoats." 

"Why  do  you  persist  in  misunderstanding  and 
hurting  me?" 

"I  apologize  to  your  waistcoats,  Mr.  Sander 
son.  I  have  long  considered  them  the  substitute 
for  your  better  nature." 

"Better  natures  and  that  sort  of  thing  have 
rather  gone  out  of  style,  haven't  they?" 

"They  are  always  out  of  style  with  people  who 
never  had  them." 

"Is  this  quarreling,  Kate,  or  making  love?" 

"Oh,  let's  make  it  quarreling,  Mr.  Sanderson. 
And  now  about  that  horse  you  lent  me.  That's 
a  vile  bit  you've  got  on  him."  And  the  conver 
sation  turned  to  other  things,  as  it  always  did 
when  he  tried  to  be  sentimental  with  Kate.  Some 
times  he  thought  it  was  not  the  girl,  but  her  re 
sistance,  that  he  admired  so  much. 

Things  in  the  Bartlett  household  were  getting 
a  bit  uneasy.  The  Squire  chafed  that  his  cher 
ished  project  of  Kate  and  Dave's  marrying 
seemed  no  nearer  realization  now  than  it  had 
been  two  years  ago. 


WAY    POWN    EAST. 

Dave's  equable  temper  vanished  under  the 
strain  and  uncertainty  regarding  Anna  Moore's 
,silence  and  apparent  indifference  to  him.  He 
would  have  believed  her  before  all  the  world ;  her 
side  of  the  story  was  the  only  version  for  him; 
but  Anna  did  not  see  fit  to  break  her  silence. 
When  he  would  approach  her  on  the  subject  she 
•would  only  say: 

"Mr.  David,  your  father  employs  me  as  a  ser 
vant.  I  try  to  do  my  work  faithfully,  but  my 
past  life  concerns  no  one  but  myself." 

And  Dave,  fearing  that  she  might  leave  them, 
if  he  continued  to  force  his  attentions  on  her, 
held  his  peace.  The  thought  of  losing  even  the 
sight  of  her  about  the  house  wrung  his  heart.  He 
could  not  bear  to  contemplate  the  long  winter 
days  uncheered  by  her  gentle  presence. 

It  was  nearly  Thanksgiving.  The  first  snow 
had  come  and  covered  up  everything  that  was 
bare  and  unsightly  in  the  landscape  with  its 
beautiful  mantle  of  white,  and  Anna,  sitting  by 
the  window,  dropped  the  stocking  she  was  darn 
ing  to  press  the  bitter  tears  back  to  her  eyes. 

The  snow  had  but  one  thought  for  her.     She 


WAY    D®WN    EAST. 

saw  it  falling,  falling  soft  and  feathery  on  a 
baby's  grave  in  the  Episcopal  Cemetery  at  Som- 
erville.  She  shivered;  it  was  as  if  the  flakes 
were  falling  on  her  own  warm  flesh. 

If  she  could  but  go  to  that  little  grave  and  lie 
down  among  the  feathery  flakes  and  forget  it  all, 
it  would  be  so  much  easier  than  this  eternal 
struggle  to  live.  What  had  life  in  store  for  her? 
There  was  the  daily  drudgery,  years  and  years 
of  it,  and  always  the  crushing  knowledge  of  in 
justice. 

She  knew  how  it  would  be.  Scandal  would 
track  her  down — put  a  price  on  her  head ;  these 
people  who  had  given  her  a  home  would  hear,  and 
what  would  all  her  months  of  faithful  service 
avail? 

"Is  this  true?"  she  already  heard  the  Squire  say 
in  imagination,  and  she  should  have  to  answer: 
"Yes" — and  there  would  be  the  open  door  and 
the  finger  pointing  to  her  to  go. 

She  heard  the  Squire's  familiar  step  on  the 
stair;  unconsciously,  she  crouched  lower;  had 
he  come  to  tell  her  to  go? 

But  the  Squire  came  in  whistling,  a  picture  &t 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

homely  contentment,  hands  in  pocket,  smiling 
jovially.  She  knew  there  must  be  no  telltale  tears 
on  her  cheeks,  even  if  her  heart  was  crying  out 
in  the  cold  and  snow.  She  knew  the  bitterness 
of  being  denied  the  comfort  of  tears.  It  was  but 
one  of  the  hideous  train  of  horrors  that  pursued 
a  woman  in  her  position. 

She  forced  them  back  and  met  the  Squire  with 
a  smile  that  was  all  the  sweeter  for  the  effort. 

"Here's  your  chair,  Squire,  all  ready  waiting 
for  you,  and  the  only  thing  you  want  to  make 
you  perfectly  happy — is — guess?"  She  held  out 
his  old  corncob  pipe,  filled  to  perfection. 

"I  declare,  Anna,  you  are  just  spoiling  me,  and 
some  day  you'll  be  going  off  and  getting  married 
to  some  of  these  young  fellows  'round  here,  and 
Where  will  I  be  then?" 

"You  need  have  no  fears  on  that  score,"  she 
said,  struggling  to  maintain  a  smile. 

"Well,  well,  that's  what  girls  always  say,  but 
I  don't  know  what  we'll  do  without  you.  How 
long  have  you  been  with  us,  now?" 

"Let  me  see,"  counting  on  her  fingers:  "just 
months." 


130  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"So  it  is,  my  dear.  Well,  I  hope  it  will  be  six 
years  before  you  think  of  leaving  us.  And,  Anna, 
while  we  are  talking,  I  like  to  say  to  you  that  I 
have  felt  pretty  mean  more  than  once  about  the 
way  I  treated  you  that  first  day  you  come." 

"Pray,  do  not  mention  it,  Squire.  Jour  kind 
ness  since  has  quite  made  me  forget  that  you  hesi 
tated  to  take  an  utter  stranger  into  your  house 
hold." 

"That  was  it,  my  dear — an  utter  stranger — and 
you  cannot  really  blame  me;  here  was  Looizy  and 
Kate  and  I  was  asked  to  take  into  the  house  with 
them  a  young  woman  whom  I  had  never  set  eyes 
on  before;  it  seemed  to  me  a  trifle  rteky,  but 
you've  proved  that  I  was  wrong,  my  dear,  and 
I'll  admit  it," 

The  girl  dropped  the  stocking  she  was  mend 
ing  ;  her  trembling  hand  refused  to  support  even 
the  pretense  of  work.  Outside  the  snow  was  fall 
ing  just  as  it  was  falling,  perhaps,  on  the  little 
grave  where  all  her  youth  and  hope  were  buried. 

The  thought  gave  her  courage  to  speak,  though 
the  pale  lips  struggled  pitifully  to  frame  the 
words. 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 


131 


"Squire,  suppose  that  when  I  came  to  you  that 
day  last  June  you  had  been  right — I  am  only  say 
ing  this  for  the  sake  of  argument,  Squire — but 
suppose  that  I  had  been  a  deceived  girl,  that  I 
had  come  here  to  begin  all  over  again;  to  live 
down  the  injustice,  the  scandal  and  all  the  other 
things  that  unfortunate  woman  have  to  live 
down,  would  you  still  have  felt  the  same?" 

"Why,  Anna,  I  never  heard  you  talk  like  this 
before ;  of  course  I  should  have  felt  the  same ;  if 
a  commandment  is  broke,  it's  broke;  nothing  can 
alter  that,  can  it?" 

"But,  Squire,  is  there  no  mercy,  no  chance  held 
out  to  the  woman  who  has  been  unfortunate?" 

:*Anna,  these  arguments  don't  sound  well  from 
a  proper  behaving  young  woman  like  you.  I 
know  it's  the  fashion  nowadays  for  good  women 
to  talk  about  mercy  to  their  fallen  sisters,  but 
it's  a  mistake.  When  a  woman  falls,  she  loses 
her  right  to  respect,  and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  storm  and  the  softly 
falling  flakes  were  no  whiter  than  her  face. 

As  Anna  turned  to  leave  the  room  on  some 
pretext,  she  saw  Kate  coming  in  with  a  huge 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

bunch  of  Jacqueminot  roses  in  her  hand.  Of 
course,  Sanderson  had  sent  them.  The  perfume 
of  them  sickened  Anna,  as  the  odor  of  a  charnel 
house  might  have  done.  She  tried  to  smile 
bravely  at  Kate,  who  smiled  back  triumphantly 
as  she  went  in  to  show  her  uncle  the  flowers. 
But  the  sight  of  them  was  like  the  turning  of  a 
knife  in  a  festering  wound. 

Anna  made  her  way  to  the  kitchen.  Dave  was 
sitting  there  smoking.  Anna  found  strength  and 
sustenance  in  his  mere  presence,  though  she  did 
not  say  a  word  to  him,  but  he  was  such  a  faithful 
soul.  Good,  honest  Dave. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  VILLAGE  GOSSIP  SNIFFS  SCANDAH 

"Flavia,  most  tender  of  her  own  good  name, 
Is  rather  careless  of  her  sister's  fame! 
Her  superfluity  the  poor  supplies, 
But  if  she  touch  a  character  it  dies." 

— Cowper. 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Marthy  Perkins  and 
her  continual  pursuit  of  pleasure,  that  she  should 
wade  through  snowdrifts  to  Squire  Bartlett's  and 
ask  for  a  lift  in  his  sleigh.  The  Squire's  family 
were  going  to  a  surprise  party  to  be  given  to  one 
of  the  neighbor's,  and  Marthy  was  as  determined 
about  going  as  a  debutante. 

She  came  in,  covered  with  snow,  hooded, 
shawled  and  coated  till  she  resembled  a  huge 
cocoon.  The  Squire  placed  a  big  armchair  for 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

her  near  the  fire,  and  Marthy  sat  down,  but  not 
without  disdaining  Anna's  offers  to  remove  her 
wraps.  She  sniffed  at  Anna — no  other  word  will 
express  it — and  savagely  clutched  her  big  old- 
fashioned  muff  when  Anna  would  have  taken  it 
from  her  to  dry  it  of  the  snow. 

The  sleighbells  jingled  merrily  as  the  different 
parties  drove  by,  singing,  whistling,  laughing,  on 
their  way  to  the  party.  The  church  choir,  snugly 
installed  in  "Doc"  Wiggin's  sleigh,  stopped  at 
the  Squire's  to  "thaw  out,"  and  try  a  step  or  two ; 
Rube  Whipple,  the  town  constable,  giving  them 
his  famous  song,  "All  Bound  'Kound  with  a 
Woolen  String." 

Kube  was,  as  usual,  the  pivot  around  which 
the  merry-making  centered.  A  few  nights  before, 
burglars  had  broken  into  the  postoffice  and  car 
ried  off  the  stamps,  and  the  town  constable  was, 
as  usual,  the  last  one  to  hear  of  it.  On  the  night 
in  question,  he  had  spent  the  evening  at  the  cor 
ner  grocery  store  with  a  couple  of  his  old  pals, 
the  stove  answering  the  purpose  of  a  rather  large 
bulls-eye,  at  which  they  expectorated,  with  con 
scientious  regularity,  from  time  to  time.  Seth 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  135 

Holcomb,  Marthy  Perkins  faithful  swain,  had 
been  of  the  corner  grocery  party. 

"Well,  Constable,  hear  you  and  Seth  helped  to 
keep  the  stove  warm  the  other  night,  while 
thieves  walked  off  with  the  postoffice,"  Marthy 
announced ;  "what  I'd  like  to  know  is,  how  much 
bitters,  rheumatism  bitters,  you  had  during  the 
evening?" 

"Well,  Marthy  Perkins,  you  ought  to  be  the 
last  to  throw  it  up  to  Seth  that  he's  obliged  to 
spend  his  evenings  round  a  corner  grocery-— 
that's  adding  insult  to  injury." 

"Insult  to  injury  I  reckon  can  stand,  Rube; 
it's  when  you  add  Seth's  bitters  that  it  staggers." 

But  Seth,  who  never  minded  Marthy's  stings 
and  jibes,  only  remarked:  "The  recipy  for  them 
bitters  was  given  to  me  by  a  blame  good  doctor." 

"That  cuts  you  out,  Wiggins,"  the  Squire  said 
playfully. 

"No,  I  don't  care  about  standing  father  to 
Seth's  bitters,"  "Doc"  Wiggins  remarked,  "but 
Fve  tasted  worse  stuff  on  a  cold  night." 

"Oh,  Seth  ain't  pertickler  about  the  tempera* 


136  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

ture,  when  he  takes  a  dose  of  bitters.  Hot  or 
cold,  it's  all  the  same  to  him,"  finished  Marthy. 

Seth  took  the  opportunity  to  whisper  to  her: 
"You're  going  to  sit  next  to  me  in  <Doc'  Wig* 
gin's  sleigh  to-night,  ain't  you,  Marthy?" 

"Indeed  I  ain't,"  said  the  spinster,  scornfully 
tossing  her  head,  "my  place  will  have  to  be  filled 
by  the  bitters-bottle;  I  am  going  with  the  Squire 
and  Mrs.  Bartlett." 

"Doc"  Wiggin's  party  left  in  high  good  humor, 
the  Squire  and  his  party  promising  to  follow 
immediately.  Anna  ran  upstairs  to  get  Mrs. 
Bartlett's  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  Marthy,  with  a 
great  air  of  mystery,  got  up,  and,  carefully  clos 
ing  the  door  after  the  girl,  turned  to  the  Squire 
and  his  wife  with : 

"I've  come  to  tell  you  something  about  her." 

"Something  about  Anna?"  said  the  Squire  in 
dignantly. 

"Oh,  no,  not  about  our  Anna,"  protested  Mrs. 
Bartlett :  "Why,  she  is  the  best  kind  of  a  girl ;  we 
are  all  devoted  to  her." 

"That's  just  the  saddest  part  of  it,  I  says  to 
myself  when  I  heard.  How  can  I  ever  make  up 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  137 

my  mind  to  tell  them  pore,  dear  Bartletts,  who 
took  her  in,  and  has  been  treating  her  like  one 
of  their  own  family  ever  since?  It  will  come 
hard  on  them,  I  sez,  but  that  ought  not  to  deter 
me  from  my  duty." 

"Look  here,  Marthy,"  thundered  the  Squire, 
"if  you've  got  anything  to  say  about  that  girl, 
out  with  it " 

"Well,  land  sake — you  needn't  be  so  touchy; 
she  ain't  kin  to  you,  and  you  might  thank  your 
lucky  stars  she  ain't." 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Marthy?"  interposed  Mrs. 
Bartlett.  "Anna'll  be  down  in  a  minute." 

"Well,  you  know,  I  have  been  sewin'  down  to 
Warren  Center  this  last  week,  and  Maria  Thom 
son,  from  Belden,  was  visiting  there,  and  natur 
ally  we  all  got  to  talking  'bout  folks  up  this  way, 
and  that  girl  Anna  Moore's  name  was  mentioned, 
and  I'm  blest  if  Maria  Thomson  didn't  recognize 
her  from  my  description. 

"I  was  telling  them  'bout  the  way  she  came 
here  last  June,  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  how  she 
said  her  mother  had  just  died  «ind  she'd  been 
sick,  and  they  knew  right  off  who  she  was." 


138  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Marthy  loved  few  things  as  she  did  an  inter 
ested  audience.  It  was  her  meat  and  drink. 

"Well,  she  didn't  call  herself  Moore  in  Belden, 
though  that  was  her  mother's  name — she  called 
herself  Lennox,"  Marthy  grinned.  "She  was  one 
of  those  married  ladies  who  forgot  their  wedding 
rings." 

The  Squire  knit  his  brows  and  his  jaws  came 
together  with  a  snap;  there  were  tears  in  Mrs. 
Bartlett's  eyes.  The  gossip  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  to  see  the  impression  her  words  were 
making. 

It  spurred  her  on  to  new  efforts.  She  posi 
tively  rolled  the  words  about  in  delight  before 
she  could  utter  them. 

"Well,  the  girl's  mother,  who  had  been  looking 
worried  out  of  her  skin,  took  sick  and  died  all  of 
a  sudden,  and  the  girl  took  sick  herself  very  soon 
afterwards — and  what  do  you  think?  A  girl 
baby  was  born  to  Mrs.  Lennox,  but  her  husband 
never  came  near  her.  Fortunately,  the  baby  did 
not  live  to  embarrass  her.  It  died,  and  she  packed 
up  and  left  Belden.  That's  when  she  came  here. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  village  inquisitor, 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

summing  up  her  terrible  evidence,  "what  are  we 
to  think  of  a  girl  called  Miss  Moore  in  one  town 
and  Mrs.  Lennox  in  the  other,  with  no  sign  of  a 
wedding  ring  and  no  sign  of  a  husband?  And 
what  are  we  going  to  think  of  that  baby?  It 
seems  to  me  scandalous."  And  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  rocked  furiously. 

The  Squire  brought  his  hand  down  on  the  table 
with  terrible  force,  his  pleasant  face  was  dis 
torted  with  rage  and  indignation. 

"Just  what  I  always  said  would  come  of  taking 
in  strange  creatures  that  we  knew  nothing  about. 
Do  you  think  that  I  will  have  a  creature  like  that 
in  my  house  with  my  wife  and  my  niece,  pollut 
ing  them  with  her  very  presence? — out  she  goes 
this  minute!" 

He  strode  over  to  the  door  through  which  Anna 
had  passed  a  few  moments  before,  he  flung  it  open 
and  was  about  to  call  when  he  felt  his  wife  cling 
frantically  to  his  arm. 

"Father,  don't  do  anything  in  anger  that  you'll 
repent  of  later.  How  do  you  know  this  is  true? 
Look  how  well  the  girl  has  acted  since  she  has 


14O  VAT    W>W3f    EAST. 

been  here"— and  in  a  lower  Yoke,  "you  know 
that  Harthy's  gfren  to  talking." 

The  hand  on  the  knob  relaxed,  a  kindly  light 
replaced  the  anger  in  his  eyes, 

"Yon  are  right,  Looizy,  what  weVe  heard  is 
only  hearsay.  111  not  say  a  word  to  the  girl  till 
I  know;  but  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  Belden  and 
find  out  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end.* 

Kate  and  the  professor  came  in  laden  with, 
wrap*,  laughing  and  talking  in  great  gjee  Kate 
was  going  to  ride  in  the  sleigh  with  the  professor, 
and  the  discovery  of  a  new  species  of  potato-bug 
could  not  hare  delighted  him  more  He  was  in 
a  most  gallant  mood,  and  concluding  that  this 
was  die  opportunity  for  making  himself  agree 
able,  he  undertook  to  put  on  Kate's  rubbers  orer 
lier  dainty  dancing  slippers. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  glimpse  of  the  cobwebby  black 
silk  stocking  that  ensnared  his  wits,  perhaps  it 
was  the  delight  of  kneeling  to  Kate  eren  in  tills 
humble  capacity.  In  either  case,  the  result  was 
equally  grotesque;  Kate  found  her  dainty  feet 
neatly  enclosed  hi  the  professor's  ungainly  are- 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

tics,  while  he  hopelessly  contemplated  her 
shoe  and  the  size  of  his  own  foot. 

Anna  returned  with  Mrs.  Bartletfs  bonnet  and 
cloak  before  the  laugh  at  the  professor  had  sub 
sided.  She  adjusted  the  cloak,  tied  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett's  bonnet  strings  with  daughterly  care  and 
then  turned  to  look  after  the  Squire's  comfort, 
but  he  strode  past  her  to  the  sleigh  with  Marthy. 
Kate  and  the  professor  called  on  a  cheery  "Good- 
night,"  but  Mrs.  Bartlett  remained  long  enough 
to  take  the  pretty,  sorrowful  face  in  her  hands 
and  give  it  a  sweet,  motherly  kisa. 

When  the  jingling  of  the  sleighbells  died  away 
across  the  snow,  Hi  offered  to  read  jokes  to  Anna 
from  "Pickings  from  Puck,*  which  he  had  se 
lected  as  a  Christmas  present  from  Kate,  if  she 
would  consent  to  hare  supper  in  the  sitting-room, 
where  it  was  warm  and  cosy.  Anna  began  to 
pop  the  corn,  and  Hi  to  read  the  jokes  with  more 
effort  than  he  would  hare  expended  on  the  saw 
ing  of  a  cord  of  wood. 

He  bit  into  an  apple.  An  expression  of  perfect 
contentment  illuminated  his  countenance  and  in  a 
Toice  husky  with  fruit  began :  "Oh,  here  is  a  lore- 


WAY  DOWN   EAST. 

ly  one,  Anna,"  and  he  declaimed,  after  the  style 
usually  employed  by  students  of  the  first  reader. 

"Weary  Baggies:  'Say,  Eagsy,  w'y  don't  you 
ask  'em  for  something  to  eat  in  dat  house.  Is 
you  afraid  of  de  dog?7  " 

"Ragsy  Reagan :  'No,  I  a-i-n-t  'fraid  of  the  dog, 
but  me  pants  is  frayed  of  him.' ' 

"Ha,  ha,  ha — say,  Anna,  that's  the  funniest 
thing  I  ever  did  see.  The  tramp  wasn't  frayed 
of  him,  but  his  pants  was  'fraid  of  him.  Gee, 
ain't  that  a  funny  joke?  And  say,  Anna,  there's 
a  picture  with  his  clothes  all  torn." 

Hi  was  fairly  convulsed ;  he  read  till  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks.  "  'Pickin's  from  Puck, 
the  funniest  book  ever  wrote.'  Here's  another, 
Anna." 

"  'A  p-o-o-r  old  man  was  sunstruck  on  Broad 
way  this  morning.  His  son  struck  him  for  five 
dollars.' '  Hi  sat  pondering  over  it  for  a  full 
minute,  then  he  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw  that 
continued  so  long  and  uproariously  that  neither 
heard  the  continued  rapping  on  the  front  door. 

"Hi,  some  one  is  knocking  on  the  front  door. 
Do  go  and  see  who  it  is." 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

"O !  let  'em  knock,  Anna,  don't  let's  break  up 
our  party  for  strangers." 

"Well,  Hi9  I'll  have  to  go  myself,"  and  she  laid 
down  the  corn-popper,  but  the  boy  got  up  grumb 
ling,  lurched  to  the  door  and  let  in  Lennox  San 
derson. 

"'Tain't  nobody  at  home,  Mr.  Sanderson,"  said 
Hi,  inhospitably  blocking  the  way.  Anna  had 
crouched  over  the  fire,  as  if  to  obliterate  herself. 

"Here,  Hi,  you  take  this  and  go  out  and  hold 
my  horse;  he's  mettlesome  as  the  deuce  this  cold 
weather.  I  want  to  get  warm  before  I  go  to 
Putnam's." 

Hi  put  on  his  muffler,  mits  and  cap — each  with 
a  favorite  "swear  word,"  such  as  "ding  it,"  "duin 
it,"  "darn  it."  Nevertheless  he  wisely  concluded 
to  take  the  half  dollar  from  him  and  save  it  for 
the  spring  crop  of  circuses. 

1  Anna  started  to  leave  the  room,  but  Sander 
son's  peremptory  "Stay  here,  I've  got  to  talk  to 
you,"  detained  her. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  faces — these  two, 
who  but  a  few  short  months  ago  had  been  all  in 


144  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

all  to  each  other — and  the  dead  fire  was  not 
colder  than  their  looks. 

"Well,  Anna/'  he  said  sneeringly,  "what's  your 
game?  You've  been  hanging  about  here  ever 
since  I  came  to  the  neighborhood.  How  much  do 
you  want  to  go  away?" 

"Nothing  that  you  could  give  me,  Lennox  San 
derson.  My  only  wish  is  that  I  might  be  spared 
the  sight  of  you." 

"Don't  beat  around  the  bush,  Anna;  is  it 
money,  or  what?  You  are  not  foolish  enough  to 
try  to  compel  me  to  marry  you?" 

"Nothing  could  be  further  from  my  mind.  I 
did  think  once  of  compelling  you  to  right  the 
wrong  you  have  done  me,  but  that  is  past.  It  is 
buried  in  the  grave  with  my  child." 

"Then  the  child  is  dead?"  He  came  over  to 
the  fireplace  where  she  stood,  but  she  drew  away 
from  him. 

"You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me,  Lenox 
Sanderson.  The  love  I  felt  once  is  dead,  and  I 
have  no  feeling  for  you  now  but  contempt." 

"You  need  not  rub  it  in  like  that,  Anna.  I 
perfectly  willing  to  do  the  square  thing  by 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  145 

you  always,  but  you  flared  up,  went  away,  and 
Heaven  only  knew  what  became  of  you.  It's  bad 
enough  to  have  things  made  unpleasant  for  me 
in  Boston  on  your  account,  without  having  you 
queering  my  plans  here." 

"Boston — I  never  told  anyone  in  Boston." 

"No,  but  that  row  got  into  the  papers  about 
Langdon  and  the  Tremonts  cut  me." 

"Hush,"  said  Anna,  as  a  spasm  of  pain  crossed 
her  face :  "I  never  wish  you  to  refer  to  my  past 
life  again." 

"Indeed,  Anna,  I  am  only  too  anxious  to  do 
the  right  thing  by  you,  even  now.  If  you  will  go 
away,  I  will  give  you  what  you  want,  if  you  don't 
intend  to  interfere  between  Kate  and  me." 

"Are  you  sure  that  Kate  is  in  earnest?  You 
know  that  the  Squire  intends  her  to  marry 
Dave." 

"I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  preventing  that 
if  you  don't  interfere." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  again  consider 
ing  the  same  old  question  that  she  had  thrashed 
out  a  thousand  times — should  she  tell  Kate? 
How  would  she  take  it?  Would  the  tragedy  of 


14)6  WAY    D°WN    EAST. 

her  life  be  regarded  as  a  little  wild-oat  sowing 
on  the  part  of  Sanderson  and  her  own  eternal 
disgrace? 

The  man  was  in  no  humor  for  her  silence.  He 
grasped  her  roughly  by  the  arm,  and  his  voice 
was  raised  loud  in  angry  protest.  "Tell  me — do 
you,  or  do  you  not  intend  to  interfere?" 

In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  neither  heard 
the  outer  door  open,  and  neither  heard  David 
enter.  He  stood  in  his  quiet  way,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other.  Sanderson's  angry  question 
died  away  in  some  foolish  commonplace,  but 
David  had  heard  and  Anna  and  Sanderson 
knew  it. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DAVID  CONFESSES  HIS  LOVE. 

"Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love ; 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
iWoods,  or  steep  mountains,  yield." 

— Marlowe. 

SANDERSON,  recovering  his  self-possession  al 
most  immediately,  drawled  out: 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Dave.  Came  over  thinking 
I  might  be  in  time  to  go  over  to  Putnam's  with 
your  people.  They  had  gone,  so  I  stopped  long 
enough  to  get  warm.  I  must  be  going  now. 
Good-night,  Miss — Miss" — (he  seemed  to  have 
great  difficulty  in  recalling  the  name)  "Moore." 

David  paid  no  attention  to  him ;  his  eyes  were 
riveted  on  Anna,  who  had  changed  coloi  and  was 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

now  like  ivory  flushing  into  life.  She  trembled 
and  fell  to  her  knees,  making  a  pretense  of  gath 
ering  up  her  knitting  that  had  fallen. 

"What  brought  Sanderson  here,  Anna?  Is  he 
anything  to  you — are  you  anything  to  him?" 

She  tried  to  assume  a  playful  lightness,  but  it 
failed  dismally.  It  was  all  her  pallid  lips  could 
do  to  frame  the  words :  "Why,  Mr.  David,  what 
a  curious  question !  What  possible  interest  could 
the  'catch'  of  the  neighborhood  have  in  your 
father's  servant?" 

The  suggestion  of  flippancy  that  her  words 
contained  irritated  the  grave,  quiet  man  as  few 
things  could  have  done.  He  turned  from  her  and 
would  have  left  the  room,  but  she  detained  him. 

"I  am  -lorry  I  wounded  you,  Mr.  David,  but, 
indeed,  you  have  no  right  to  ask." 

"I  know  it,  Anna,  and  you  won't  give  me  the 
right;  but  how  dared  that  cub  Sanderson  speak 
to  you  in  that  way?"  He  caught  her  hand,  and 
unconsciously  wrung  it  till  she  cried  out  in  pain. 
"Forgive  me,  dear,  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the 
world ;  but  that  man's  manner  toward  you  makes 
me  wild." 


WAY    D©WN    EAST. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  beneath  her  long, 
dark  lashes;  he  thought  her  eyes  were  like  the 
glow  of  forest  fires  burning  through  brushwood. 
'"We  will  never  think  of  him  again,  Mr.  David. 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  no  more  to  Mr.  Sanderson 
than  he  is  to  me,  and  that  is — nothing." 

"Thank  you  for  those  words,  Anna.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  happy  they  make  me.  But  I  do  not 
understand  you  at  all.  Even  a  countryman  like 
me  can  see  that  you  have  never  been  used  to  our 
rough  way  of  living;  you  were  never  born  to 
this  kind  of  thing,  and  yet  when  that  man  San 
derson  looks  at  you  or  talks  to  you,  there  is  al 
ways  an  undertone  of  contempt  in  his  look,  his 
words." 

She  sank  wearily  into  an  armchair.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  limit  of  endurance  had  been 
reached,  but  he,  taking  her  silence  for  acquies 
cence,  lost  no  time  in  following  up  what  he 
fondly  hoped  might  be  an  advantage.  "I  did  not 
go  to  the  Putnams  to-night,  Anna,  because  you 
were  not  going,  and  there  is  no  enjoyment  for  me 
when  you  are  not  there," 


150  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"Mr.  David,  if  you  continue  to  talk  to  me  like 
this  I  shall  have  to  leave  this  house." 

"Tell  me,  Anna,"  he  said  so  gravely  that  the 
woman  beside  him  knew  that  life  and  death  were 
balanced  with  her  words :  "tell  me,  when  you  said 
that  day  last  autumn  by  the  well  that  you  never 
intended  to  marry,  was  it  just  a  girl's  coquetry  or 
was  there  some  deeper  reason  for  your  saying 
so?" 

She  could  not  face  the  love  in  those  honest  eyes 
and  answer  as  her  conscience  prompted.  She  was 
tired,  so  tired  of  the  struggle,  what  would  she 
not  have  given  to  rest  here  in  the  shelter  of  this 
perfect  love  and  trust,  but  it  was  not  for  her. 

"Mr.  David/'  she  said,  looking  straight  before 
her  with  wide,  unseeing  eyes ;  "I  can  be  no  man's 
wife." 

He  knew  from  the  lines  of  suffering  written 
deep  on  the  pale  young  face,  that  maiden  co 
quetry  had  not  inspired  her  to  speak  thus;  but 
word  for  word,  it  had  been  wrung  from  out  of 
the  depths  of  a  troubled  soul. 

"'Anna!"  cried  David,  in  mingled  astonishment 
and  pain.  But  Anna  only  turned  mutely  toward 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

him  with  an  imploring  look.  She  stretched  out 
her  hands  to  him,  as  if  trying  to  tell  him  more. 
But  words  failed  her.  Her  tears  overcame  her 
and  she  fled,  sobbing,  to  her  room.  All  the  way 
up  the  winding  flight  of  stairs,  David  could  hear 
her  anguished  moans.  He  would  have  followed 
her,  but  Hi  burst  into  the  room,  stamping  the 
snow  from  his  boots.  He  shoved  in  the  front  door 
as  if  he  had  been  an  invading  army.  He  un 
wound  his  muffler  and  cast  it  from  him  as  if  he 
had  a  grudge  against  it,  as  he  proceeded  to  de 
liver  himself  of  his  wrongs. 

"If  there's  any  more  visitors  coming  to  the 
house  to-night  that  wants  their  horses  held,  they 
can  do  it  themselves,  for  I  am  going  to  have  my 
supper."  David  made  no  reply,  but  went  to  his 
own  room  to  brood  over  the  day's  events.  And 
so  Anna  was  spared  any  further  talk  with  David 
that  night ;  a  circumstance  for  which  she  was  de- 
routly  thankful. 

The  next  day  the  snow  was  deeper  by  a  foot, 
but  this  did  not  deter  the  Squire  from  making 
his  proposed  trip  to  Belden,  He  started  imme 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

diately  after  breakfast,  prepared  to  sift  matter? 
to  the  bottom. 

An  air  of  tension  and  anxiety  pervaded  the 
household  all  that  long,  miserable  day.  Anna 
was  tortured  with  doubts.  Should  she  slip  away 
quietly  without  telling,  or  should  she  make  her 
humiliating  confession  to  Kate?  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
who  knew  the  object  of  her  husband's  errand, 
could  not  control  her  nerves.  She  knew  intui 
tively  "that  something  was  going  to  happen,"  as 
the  good  soul  put  it  to  herself. 

Altogether  it  was  one  of  those  nerve- wracking 
days  that  come  from  time  to  time  in  the  best 
regulated  households,  apparently  for  no  other 
purpose  but  to  prove  the  fact  that  a  solitary  ex 
istence  is  not  necessarily  the  most  unhappy. 

Mrs.  Bartlett,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  was 
worried  about  Dave.  He  was  moody  and  morose, 
even  to  her,  his  sworn  friend  and  ally,  with  whom 
he  had  never  had  a  word's  difference.  He  had 
gone  off  that  morning  shortly  after  the  Squire 
left  the  house;  and  his  mother,  watching  him 
carefully  at  breakfast,  noticed  that  he  had  shoved 
away  his  plate  witk  the  food  untasted. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

A  fatal  symptom  to  the  ever- watchful  maternal 
eye. 

Kate  felt  sulky  because  her  aunt  and  uncle  had 
been  urging  her  to  marry  Dave,  and  apparently 
Dave  had  no  affection  for  her  beyond  that  of  a 
cousin,  the  situation  irritating  her  in  the  ex 
treme. 

"Aunt  Louisa,  what  is  the  matter  with  every 
one?"  she  said,  flouncing  into  the  kitchen. 
"Something  seems  to  have  jarred  the  family 
nerves.  Here  is  uncle  off  on  some  mysterious 
business,  Dave  goes  off  in  the  snow  in  a  tantrum, 
and  you  look  as  if  you  had  just  buried  your  last 
friend."  And  the  young  lady  left  the  room  as 
suddenly  as  she  entered  it. 

"It  does  feel  as  if  trouble  was  brewing,"  Mrs. 
Bartlett  admitted  to  Anna,  with  a  gloomy  shake 
of  the  head.  "Pm  getting  that  worried  about 
Dave,  he's  been  away  all  day,  and  it's  not  usual 
for  him  to  stay  away  like  this,"  Her  voice  broke 
a  little,  and  she  left  the  room  hurriedly. 

He  came  in  almost  immediately,  stamping  the, 
snow  from  his  boots  and  looking  twice  as  savage 
as  when  he  went  away. 


DOWN    EAST. 

"Mrs.  Bartlett  had  been  worrying  about  yoa 
all  day,  Mr.  David,"  Anna  said  as  she  turned 
from  the  dresser  with  her  arms  full  of  plates. 

"And  did  you  care,  Anna,  that  I  was  not  here?" 
He  gave  her  the  appealing  glance  of  a  great  mas 
tiff  who  hopes  for  a  friendly  pat  on  the  head. 

"My  feelings  on  the  subject  can  be  of  no  inter 
est  to  you,"  she  answered  with  chilling  decision. 

"All  right,"  and  he  went  to  the  hat-rack  to  get 
his  muffler  and  cap,  preparatory  to  again  facing 
the  storm. 

The  snow  had  been  falling  steadily  all  day. 
Drifting  almost  to  the  height  of  the  kitchen  win 
dow,  it  whirled  about  the  house  and  beat  against 
the  window  panes  with  a  muffled  sound  that  was 
inexpressibly  dreary  to  the  girl,  who  felt  herself 
the  center  of  all  this  pitiful  human  contention. 

"David,  David;  where  have  you  been  all  day, 
and  where  are  you  going  now?"  His  mother 
looked  at  his  gray,  haggard  face  and  tried  to 
guess  his  hidden  trouble,  the  first  he  had  ever 
kept  from  her. 

"Mother,  I  am  not  a  child,  and  you  can't  ex 
pect  me  to  hang  about  the  stove  like  a  cat,  all  my 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  155 

life."  It  was  his  first  harsh  word  to  her  and  she 
shrank  before  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  blow.  David, 
her  boy,  to  speak  to  her  like  that!  She  turned 
quickly  away  to  hide  the  tears,  the  first  she  had 
ever  shed  on  his  account. 

"Here,  Anna,"  she  said,  struggling  to  recover 
her  composure,  "take  this  bucket  and  get  it  filled 
for  me,  please." 

The  girl  reached  for  her  cloak  that  hung  on  a 
peg  near  the  door. 

"No,  Anna,  you  shall  not  go  out  for  water  a 
night  like  this;  it's  not  the  work  for  you  to  do." 
David  had  sprung  forward  and  caught  the  bucket 
from  her  hand  and  plunged  with  it  into  the 
storm.  Kate's  quick  eyes  caught  the  expression 
of  David's  face — while  Mrs.  Bartlett  only  heard 
his  words.  She  gave  Anna  a  searching  look  as 
she  said:  "So  it  is  you  whom  David  loves."  At 
last  Kate  understood  the  secret  of  Anna's  dis-, 
tracted  face — and  at  last  the  mother  understood 
the  secret  of  her  boy's  moodiness — he  loved  Anna. 
And  her  heart  was  filled  with  bitterness  and 
anger  at  the  very  thought ;  she  had  taken  her  boy, 
this  stranger,  with  whom  the  tongue  of  scandal 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

was  busy.  The  kindly,  gentle,  old  face  lost  all 
its  sweetness;  jealous  anger  filled  it  with  ugly 
^  lines.  Turning  to  Anna  she  said : 

"It  would  have  been  better  for  all  of  us  if  we 
had  not  taken  you  in  that  day  to  break  up  our 
home  with  your  mischief." 

Anna  was  cut  to  the  quick.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
please  do  not  say  that;  I  will  go  away  as  soon 
as  you  like,  but  it  is  not  with  my  consent  that 
David  has  these  foolish  fancies  about  me." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  never 
encouraged  him,"  indignantly  demanded  the  irate 
toother,  who  with  true  feminine  inconsistency 
would  not  have  her  boy's  affections  go  begging, 
even  while  she  scorned  the  object  of  it. 

"Encouraged  him?  I  have  begged,  entreated 
him  to  let  me  alone;  I  do  not  want  his  love." 

An  angry  sparrow  defending  her  brood  could 
not  have  been  more  indignantly  demonstrative 
than  this  gentle  old  lady. 

"And  isn't  he  good  enough  for  you,  Miss?"  she 
asked  in  a  voice  that  shook  with  wrath. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Bartlett,  would  you  have  me  take 
his  love  and  return  it?" 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

"No,  no ;  that  would  never  do !"  and  the  incon 
sistent  old  soul  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  an 
agony  of  despair.  [ 

Anna  did  not  resent  Mrs.  Bartlett's  indigna 
tion,  unjust  though  it  was;  she  knew  how  blind 
good  mothers  could  be  when  the  happiness  of 
their  children  is  at  stake.  She  felt  only  pity  for 
her  and  remembered  only  her  kindness.  So  slip 
ping  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  old  lady's 
chair,  she  took  the  toil-worn  old  hands  in  her  own 
and  said : 

"Do  not  think  hardly  of  me,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 
You  have  been  so  good — and  when  I  am  gone,  I 
want  you  to  think  of  me  with  affection.  I  will 
go  away,  and  all  this  trouble  will  straighten  it 
self  out,  and  you  will  forget  that  I  ever  caused 
you  a  moment's  pain." 

Dave  came  in  with  the  bucket  of  water  that 
had  caused  the  little  squall  and  prevented  his 
mother  from  replying,  but  the  hard  lines  had  re 
laxed  in  the  good  old  face.  She  was  again 
"mother"  whom  they  all  knew  and  loved.  San? 
derson  followed  close  after  David;  he  had  just 
come  from  Boston,  he  said,  and  inquired  for  Kate 


158  WA.Y    DOWN    EAST. 

with  a  simple  directness  that  left  no  doubt  as  fo 
whom  he  had  come  to  see. 

It  is  an  indisputable  law  of  the  eternal  fem< 
inine  for  all  women  to  flaunt  a  conquest  in  the 
face  of  the  man  who  had  declined  their  affection. 
Kate  was  not  in  love  with  her  cousin  David,  but 
she  was  devoutly  thankful  to  Providence  that 
there  was  a  Lennox  Sanderson  to  flaunt  before 
him  in  the  capacity  of  tame  cat,  and  prove  that  he 
"was  not  the  only  man  in  the  world,"  as  she  put 
it  to  herself. 

Therefore  when  Lennox  Sanderson  handed  her 
a  magnificent  bunch  of  Jacqueminot  roses  that 
he  had  brought  her  from  Boston,  Kate  was  not 
at  all  backward  in  rewarding  Sanderson  with, 
her  graciousness. 

"How  beautiful  they  are,  Mr.  Sanderson;  it 
was  so  good  of  you." 

"You  make  me  very  happy  by  taking  them/' 
he  answered  with  a  wealth  of  meaning. 

Anna,  who  had  gone  to  the  storeroom  for  some 
apples,  after  her  reconciliation  with  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett,  returned  to  find  Sanderson  talking  earnestly 
to  Kate  by  the  window.  Kate  held  up  the  roses 


WAT    DOWN     EAST.  159 

for  Anna  to  smell.  "Aren't  they  lovely,  Anna? 
There  is  nothing  like  roses  for  taking  the  edge 
off  a  snowstorm." 

Anna  was  forced  to  go  through  the  farce  of 
admiring  them,  while  Sanderson  looked  on  with 
nicely  concealed  amusement. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  them,  Anna?" 
said  Kate,  disappointed  that  she  made  no  com' 
ment. 

"The  best  thing  about  roses,  speaking  gener 
ally,  Miss  Kate,  is  that  they  fade  quickly  and  do 
not  embarrass  one  by  outliving  the  little  affairs 
in  which  they  have  played  a  part."  She  returned 
Sanderson's  languid  glance  in  a  way  that  made 
him  quail. 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  Kate,  being  in  the 
humor  for  a  little  cynicism.  "What  a  pity  that 
love  letters  can't  be  constructed  on  the  same 
principle." 

Sanderson  did  not  feel  particularly  at  ease 
while  these  two  young  women  served  and  re 
turned  cynicism;  he  was  accordingly  much  re 
lieved  when  Mrs.  Bartlett  and  Anna  both  left  the 


WAY    D(>WN     EAST. 

room,  intent  on  the  solemn  ceremony  of  opening 
a  new  supply  of  preserved  peaches. 

"Kate,  did  you  mean  what  you  just  said  to 
that  girl?"  Sanderson  asked  when  they  were 
alone. 

"What  did  I  say?  Oh,  yes,  about  the  love  let 
ters.  Well,  what  difference  does  it  make  whether 
I  meant  it  or  not?" 

"It  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to 
me,  Kate."  He  read  refusal  in  the  big  blue  eyes, 
and  he  made  haste  to  plead  his  cause  before  she 
could  say  anything. 

"Don't  answer  yet,  Kate;  don't  give  me  my  life- 
sentence,"  he  said  playfully,  taking  her  hand. 
"Think  it  over;  take  as  long  as  you  like.  Hope 
with  you  is  better  than  certainty  with  any  other 
woman." 

;  Professor  Sterling,  who  had  been  to  a  neigh 
boring  town  on  business  for  the  past  two  or  three 
days,  walked  into  the  middle  of  this  little  tableau 
in  time  to  hear  the  last  sentence.  Kate  and  San 
derson  had  failed  to  hear  him,  partly  because  he 
had  neglected  to  remove  his  overshoes  and  partly 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

because  they  were  deeply  engrossed  with,  each 
other. 

Though  his  rival's  declaration,  which  he  had 
every  reason  to  suppose  would  be  accepted,  was 
the  death  blow  to  his  hopes,  yet  he  unselfishly 
stepped  out  into  the  snow,  waited  five  minutes 
by  his  watch — a  liberal  allowance  for  an  accept 
ance,  he  considered — and  then  rapped  loud  and 
theatrically  before  entering  a  second  time.  Could 
unselfishness  go  further? 

Kate  and  Sanderson  had  no  other  opportunity 
for  confidential  talk  that  evening. 

They  were  barely  seated  about  the  supper  ta 
ble,  when  there  came  a  tremendous  rapping  at 
the  door,  and  Marthy  Perkins  came  in,  half 
frozen.  For  once  her  voluble  tongue  was  si 
lenced.  She  retailed  no  gossip  while  submitting 
to  the  friendly  ministrations  of  Mrs.  Bartlett 
and  Anna,  who  chafed  her  hands,  gave  her  hot 
tea  and  thawed  her  back  to  life — and  gossip. 

"Is  the  Squire  back  yet?"  asked  Marthy  with 
returning  warmth.  "Land  sakes,  what  can  be 
keeping  him?  Heard  him  say  last  night  that  he 


1(52  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

intended  going  away  this  morning,  and  thought 
he  might  have  come  back." 

"With  news?"  naively  asked  Sanderson. 

"Why,  yes.  I  did  think  it  was  likely  that  he 
might  have  gathered  np  something  interesting, 
away  a  whole  day."  Every  one  laughed  but  Mrs, 
Bartlett.  She  alone  knew  the  object  of  her  hus 
band's  quest, 

"Your  father's  not  likely  to  be  back  to-night — 
do  you  think  so,  Dave?"  she  asked  her  son,  more 
by  way  of  drawing  him  out  than  in  the  hope  of 
getting  any  real  information. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  it  is  likely,  mother,"  he 
answered. 

"Good  land!  and  I  nearly  froze  to  death  get 
ting  here !"  Marthy  said  in  an  aside  to  Mrs.  Bart 
lett.  "I  tell  you,  Looizy,  there  is  nothing  like 
suspense  for  wearing  you  out.  I  couldn't  get  a 
lick  of  sewing  done  to-day,  waiting  for  Amasy 
to  get  in  with  the  news." 

"Hallo !  hallo !  Let  us  in  quick — here  we  are, 
me  and  the  Squire — most  froze !  Hallo,  hallo" — 
The  rest  of  Hi's  remarks  were  a  series  of  whoops 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


Every  one  rose  from  the  table,  Mrs.  Bartlett 
pale  with  apprehension.     Marthy  flushed  with 
Delight.     She  was  not  to  be  balked  of  her  preyt 
The  Squire  was  here  with  the  news. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ALONE  IN  THE  SNOW. 

"The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain-height* 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 
A  mother  wandered  with  her  child : 
As  through  the  drifting  snows  she  pressed, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast." 

— Seba  Smith. 

THE  head  of  the  house  was  home  from  his 
mysterious  errand,  the  real  object  of  which  was 
unknown  to  all  but  Marthy  and  his  wife. 

Kate  unwound  his  muffler  and  took  his  cap ;  his 
wife  assured  him  that  she  had  been  worried  to 
death  about  him  all  day ;  the  men  inquired  solici 
tously  about  his  journey — how  had  he  stood  the 
cold — and  Anna  made  ready  his  place  at  the 
table.  But  neither  this  domestic  adulation  nor 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

the  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  affection  awaiting 
him  at  his  own  fireside  served  for  a  moment  to 
turn  him  from  the  wanton  brutality  that  he  was 
pleased  to  dignify  by  the  name  of  duty. 

Anna  could  not  help  feeling  the  "snub,"  and 
David,  whose  eyes  always  followed  Anna,  saw  it  / 
before  the  others.     "Father,"  said  he,  "what's 
the  matter,  you  don't  speak  to  Anna." 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  to  her.  I  don't  want 
to  look  at  her.  I  don't  want  anything  to  do  with 
her,"  replied  the  Squire.  Every  one  except 
Martha  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  startled  by  this 
blunt,  almost  brutal  outburst. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  all  here,  the  more  the  bet 
ter;  Marthy,  Professor,  Mr.  Sanderson,  glad  to 
see  you  and  all  the  home  folks" — he  had  a  word, 
a  nod,  a  pat  on  the  back  for  every  one  but  Anna, 
and  though  she  sought  more  than  one  opportunity 
to  speak  to  him,  he  deliberately  avoided  her. 

His  wife,  who  knew  all  the  varying  weatkers 
of  his  temper,  was  using  all  her  small  stock  of 
diplomacy  to  get  him  to  eat  his  supper.  "When 
in  doubt  about  a  man,  feed  him,"  had  been  Louisa 
Bartlett's  unfailing  rule  for  the  last  thirty  years* 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

"Here,  Amasy,  sit  down  in  your  place  that 
Anna  has  fixed  for  you.  You  can  talk  after  you've 
had  your  tea.  Anna,  please  make  the  Squire 
some  fresh  tea.  I'm  afraid  this  is  a  little  cool." 

"'She  need  not  make  my  tea,  now,  or  on  any 
future  occasion — her  days  of  service  in  my  family 
are  done  for."  And  he  hammered  the  table  with 
his  clenched  fist. 

Anna  closed  her  eyes ;  it  had  come  at  last ;  she 
had  always  known  that  it  was  only  a  question 
of  time. 

The  rest  looked  at  the  Squire  dumbfounded. 
Ah,  that  is,  but  Marthy.  She  was  licking  her  lips 
in  delightful  anticipation — with  much  the  same 
expression  as  a  cat  would  regard  an  uncaged 
canary. 

"Why,  father,  what  do  you  mean?"  asked 
David  in  amazement.  He  had  heard  no  rumor  of 
why  his  father  had  gone  to  Belden. 

"Now,  listen,  all  of  you,"  and  again  he  thun 
dered  on  the  table  with  his  fist.  "Last  summer  I 
was  persuaded,  against  my  will,  to  take  a  strange 
woman  into  my  house.  I  found  out  to-day  that 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  1(57 

my  Judgment  then  was  right.  I  have  been  im 
posed  on — she  is  an  imposter,  an  adventuress." 

"Amasy,  Amasy,  don't  be  so  hard  on  her," 
pleaded  his  wife.  But  the  Squire  had  the  true 
huntsman's  instinct — when  he  went  out  to  hunt, 
he  went  out  to  kill. 

"The  time  has  come,"  he  continued,  raising  his 
voice  and  ignoring  his  wife's  pleading,  "when  this 
home  is  better  without  her." 

Anna  had  already  begun  her  preparation  to  go. 
She  took  her  cloak  down  from  its  peg  and 
wrapped  it  about, her  without  a  word. 

"Father,  if  Anna  goes,  I  go  with  her,"  and 
David  rose  to  his  feet,  the  very  incarnation  of 
wrath,  and  strode  over  to  where  Anna  stood  apart 
from  the  rest.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  protect- 
ingly,  and  stood  there  defiant  of  them  all. 

"David,  you  must  be  mad.  What,  you,  a  son 
of  mine,  defy  your  father  here  in  the  presence  of 
your  friends  for  that — adventuress?" 

"Father,  take  back  that  word  about  Anna.  A 
better  woman  never  lived.  You — who  call  your 
self  a  Christian — would  you  send  away  a  friend 
less  girl  a  night  like  this?  And  for  what  reason? 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

Because  a  few  old  cats  have  been  gossiping  about 
her.  It  is  unworthy  of  you,  father ;  I  would  not 
have  believed  it." 

"So  you  have  appointed  yourself  her  champion, 
sir.  No  doubt  she  has  been  trying  her  arts  on 
you.  Don't  be  a  fool,  David ;  stand  aside,  if  she 
wants  to  go,  let  her;  women  like  her  can  look  out 
for  themselves;  let  her  go." 

"Don't  make  me  forget,  sir,  that  you  are  my 
father.  I  refuse  absolutely  to  hear  the  woman  I 
love  spoken  of  in  this  way." 

The  rest  looked  on  in  painful  silence;  they 
seemed  to  be  deprived  of  the  power  of  speech  or 
action  by  the  Squire's  vehemence;  the  wind 
howled  about  the  house  fitfully,  and  was  still, 
then  resumed  its  wailing  grief. 

"And  you  stand  there  and  defy  me  for  that 
woman  in  the  presence  of  Kate,  to  whom  you 
are  as  good  as  betrothed?" 

"No,  no ;  there  is  no  question  of  an  engagement 
between  David  and  me,  and  there  never  can  be," 
said  Kate,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  to  make 
of  the  turn  that  things  had  taken. 

David  continued  to  stand  with  his  arm  about 


SVAY    DOWN    EAST.  169 

Anna.  He  had  heard  the  Belden  gossip — a 
wealthy  young  man  from  Boston  had  been  atten 
tive  to  her,  then  left  the  place;  jilted  her,  some 
said ;  been  refused  by  her,  said  others.  It  did  not 
make  a  bit  of  difference  to  David  which  version 
was  true;  he  was  ready  to  stand  by  Anna  in  the 
face  of  a  thousand  gossips.  This  was  just  his 
father's  brutal  way  of  upholding  what  he  was 
pleased  to  term  his  authority. 

"What  do  you  know  about  her,  David?"  reiter 
ated  the  Squire.  "I  heard  reports,  but  like  you, 
I  would  not  believe  them  till  I  had  investigated 
them  fully.  Ask  her  if  she  has  not  been  the 
mother  of  an  illegitimate  child,  who  is  now  buried 
in  the  Episcopal  cemetery  at  Belden — ask  her 
if  she  was  not  known  there  under  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Lennox?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  girl,  raising  her  head, 
"that  I  was  known  as  Mrs.  Lennox.  It  is  true 
that  I  have  a  child  buried  in  Belden " 

David's  arm  fell  from  her,  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  groaned.  Anna  opened  the  door, 
a  whirling  gust  flared  the  lamps  and  drove  a 
skurrying  cloud  of  snowflakes  within,  yet  nofc 


170  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

one  hand  was  raised  to  detain  her.  She  swayed 
uncertain  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  then 
turned  to  them :  "You  have  hunted  me  down,  you 
have  found  out  that  I  have  been  a  mother,  that 
I  am  without  the  protection  of  a  husband's  name, 
and  that  was  enough  for  you — your  duty  stopped 
at  the  scandal.  Why  did  you  not  find  out  that  1 
was  a  young,  inexperienced  girl  who  was  be 
trayed  by  a  mock  marriage — that  I  thought  my 
self  an  honorable  wife — why  should  your  duty 
stop  in  hunting  down  a  defenseless  girl  while  the 
man  who  ruined  her  life  sits  there,  a  welcome 
guest  in  your  house  to-night  ?" 

She  was  gone — David,  who  had  been  stunned 
by  his  father's  words,  ran  after  her,  but  the 
whirling  flakes  had  hidden  every  trace  of  her,  and 
the  howling  wind  drove  back  his  cry  of  "Anna, 
Anna !  come  back !" 

Anna  did  not  feel  the  cold  after  closing  the 
door  between  her  and  the  Squire's  family;  the 
white  flame  of  her  wrath  seemed  to  burn  up  the 
blood  in  her  veins,  as  she  plunged  through  the 
snowdrifts,  unconscious  of  the  cold  and  storm. 
She  had  no  words  in  which  to  formulate  her  fury 


WAT    DOWN    BAST. 

at  the  indignity  of  her  treatment.  Her  native 
sweetness,  for  the  moment,  had  been  extinguished 
and  she  was  but  the  incarnation  of  wronged 
womanhood,  crying  aloud  to  high  Heaven  for  jus 
tice. 

The  blood  throbbed  at  her  brain  and  the  quick 
ened  circulation  warmed  her  till  she  loosened  the 
cloak  at  her  throat  and  wondered,  in  a  dazed  sort 
of  way,  why  she  had  put  it  on  on  such  a  stifling 
night.  Then  she  remembered  the  snow  and  eag 
erly  uplifted  her  flushed  cheeks  that  the  falling 
flakes  might  cool  them. 

But  of  the  icy  grip  of  the  storm  she  was  wholly 
unconscious.  There  was  a  mad  exhilaration  in 
facing  the  wild  elements  on  such  a  night,  the  ex 
ertion  of  forcing  through  the  storm  chimed  in 
with  her  mood;  each  snowdrift  through  which 
she  fought  her  way  was  so  much  cruel  injustice 
beaten  down.  She  felt  that  she  had  the  strength 
and  courage  to  walk  to  the  end  of  the  earth  and 
she  went  on  and  on,  never  thinking  of  the  storm, 
or  her  destination,  or  where  she  would  rest  that 
night.  Her  head  felt  light,  as  if  she  had  been 
drinking  wine,  and  more  than  once  she  stopped 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

to  mop  the  perspiration  from  her  forehead.  How 
absurd  for  the  snow  to  fall  on  such  a  sultry  night, 
.and  foolish  of  those  people  who  had  turned  her 
'out  to  die,  thinking  it  was  cold — the  thermometer 
must  be  100.  She  paused  to  get  her  breath;  a 
blast  of  icy  wind  caught  her  cape,  and  almost  suc 
ceeded  in  robbing  her  of  it,  and  the  chill  wrestled 
with  the  fever  that  was  consuming  her,  and  she 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  cold. 

"Well,  what  next?"  she  asked  herself,  throwing 
back  her  head  and  unconsciously  assuming  the 
attitude  of  a  creature  brought  to  bay  but  still 
unconquered. 

"What  next?"  She  repeated  it  with  the  dull 
despair  of  one  who  has  nothing  further  to  fear 
in  the  way  of  suffering.  The  Fates  had  spent 
themselves  on  her,  she  no  longer  had  the  power 
to  respond.  Suppose  she  should  become  lost  in  a 
snowdrift?  "Well,  what  did  it  matter?" 

Then  came  one  of  those  unaccountable  clear 
ings  of  the  mental  vision  that  nature  seems  to 
reserve  for  the  final  chapter.  Her  quickened 
brain  grasped  the  tragedy  of  her  life  as  it  never 
had  befora  She  saw  it  with  impersonal  eyes, 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  173 

Anna  Moore  was  a  stranger  on  whose  case  she 
could  sit  with  unbiased  judgment.  Her  mind 
swung  back  to  the  football  game  in  the  golden 
autumn  eighteen  months  ago,  and  she  heard  the 
cheers  and  saw  the  swarms  of  eager,  upturned 
faces  and  the  dots  of  blue  and  crimson,  like  flow 
ers,  in  a  great  waving  field.  What  a  panorama 
of  life,  and  force,  and  struggle  it  had  been !  How 
typical  of  life,  and  the  end — but  no,  the  end  was 
not  yet;  there  must  be  some  justice  in  life,  some 
law  of  compensation.  God  must  hear  at  last ! 

The  wind  came  tearing  down  from  the  pine 
forest,  surging  through  the  hills  till  it  became  a 
roar.  Ah,  it  had  sounded  like  that  at  the  game. 
They  had  called  "Rah,  Eah  Sanderson"  till  they 
were  hoarse,  "Sanderson,  Eah!  Sander-son-! 
Eah !  Eah  I"  The  crackling  forest  seemed  to  have 
gone  mad  with  the  echo  of  his  name.  It  had  be 
come  the  keynote  of  the  wind.  Eah !  Eah !  San 
derson  ! 

"You  can't  escape  him  even  in  death"  some 
thing  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear.  "Ha-ha, 
Sanderson,  San-der-son."  She  put  her  hands  to 
her  ears  to  shut  out  the  hateful  sound,  but  she 


174*  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

heard  it,  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul ;  this  time 
faint  and  far  off:  Sander-son — San-der-son.  It 
was  above  her  in  the  groaning,  creaking  branches 
of  the  trees,  in  the  falling  snow,  in  the  whipping 
wind,  the  mockery  would  not  be  stilled. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  howled  ehe  wind,  then  sinking 
to  a  sigh,  San-der-son — San-der-son. 

The  cold  had  begun  to  strike  into  the  marrow. 
She  moved  as  if  her  limbs  were  weighted.  There 
was  a  mist  gathering  before  her  eyes,  and  she  put 
up  her  hand  and  tried  to  brush  it  away,  but  it 
remained.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  carrying  some 
thing  heavy  in  her  arms  and  as  she  walked  it 
grew  heavier  and  heavier.  To  her  wandering 
mind  it  took  a  pitifully  familiar  shape.  Ah,  yes ! 
She  knew  what  it  was  now ;  it  was  the  baby,  and 
she  must  not  let  it  get  cold.  She  must  cover  it 
with  her  cape  and  press  it  close  to  her  bosom  to 
^keep  it  warm,  but  it  was  so  far,  so  far,  and  it  was 
getting  heavier  every  moment. 

And  the  wind  continued  to  wail  its  dirge  of 
"San-der-son,  San-der-son."  She  went  through 
the  motion  of  covering  up  the  baby's  head ;  she 
did  not  want  it  to  waken  and  hear  that  awful  cry. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  175 

She  lifted  up  her  empty  arms  and  lowered  her 
head  to  soothe  the  imaginary  baby  with  a  kiss, 
and  was  shocked  to  feel  how  cold  its  little  cheek 
had  grown.  She  hurried  on  and  on.  She  would 
beg  the  Squire  to  let  his  wife  take  it  in  for  just  a 
minute,  to  warm  it.  She  would  not  ask  to  come 
in  herself,  but  the  baby — no  one  would  be  so  cruel 
as  to  refuse  her  that.  It  would  die  out  here  in 
the  cold  and  the  storm.  It  was  so  cruel,  so  hard 
to  be  wandering  about  on  a  night  like  this  with 
the  baby.  Her  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears,  and 
her  lower  lip  to  quiver,  but  she  plodded  on,  some 
times  gaining  a  few  steps  and  then  retracing 
them,  but  always  with  the  same  instinct  that  had 
spurred  her  on  to  efforts  beyond  her  strength, 
and  this  done,  she  had  no  further  concern  for  her 
self.  Her  body  especially,  where  the  cape  did  not 
protect  it  against  the  blast,  was  freezing,  shiv- 
'ering,  aching  all  over.  A  latent  consciousness 
began  to  dawn  as  the  dread  presence  of  death 
drew  nearer ;  some  intuitive  effort  of  preservation 
asserted  itself,  and  she  kept  repeating  over  and 
over :  "I  must  not  give  up.  I  must  not  give  up.'5 
Presently  the  scene  began  to  change,  and  the 


176  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

white  formless  world  about  her  began  to  assume 
definite  shape.  She  had  seen  it  all  before,  the 
bare  trees  pointing  their  naked  branches  upward, 
the  fringe  of  willows,  the  smooth,  glassy  sheet  of 
water  that  was  partly  frozen  and  partly  undula 
ting  toward  the  southern  shore.  The  familiarity 
of  it  all  began  to  haunt  her.  Had  she  dreamed  it 
— was  she  dreaming  now?  Perhaps  it  was  only 
a  dream  after  all !  Then,  as  if  in  a  wave  of  clear 
thought,  she  remembered  it  all.  It  was  the  lake, 
and  she  had  been  there  with  the  Sunday  school 
children  last  summer  on  their  picnic. 

It  came  to  her  like  a  solution  of  all  her  trou 
bles;  it  was  so  placid,  so  still,  so  cold.  A  moment 
and  all  would  be  forgotten.  She  stood  with  one 
foot  on  the  creaking  ice.  It  was  but  to  walk  a 
dozen  steps  to  the  place  where  the  ice  was  but  a 
crash  of  crystal  and  that  would  end  it  all.  She 
was  so  weary  of  the  eternal  strife  of  things,  she 
was  so  glad  to  lay  down  the  burden  under  which" 
her  back  was  bending  to  the  point  of  breaking. 

And  yet,  there  was  the  primitive  instinct  of 
self-preservation  combating  her  inclination,  urg 
ing  her  on  to  make  one  more  final  effort.  Back 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  177 

and  forth,  through  the  snow  about  the  lake  she 
wandered,  without  being  able  to  decide.  Her 
strength  was  fast  ebbing.  Which — which  should 
it  be?  "God  have  mercy!"  she  cried,  and  fell 
unconscious. 


178  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  NIGHT  IN  THE  SNOWSTORM. 

"Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven/' 

— Emerson. 

ALL  through  that  long,  wild  night  David 
searched  and  shouted,  to  find  only  snow  and  si* 
lence. 

Through  the  darkness  and  the  falling  flakes  he 
could  not  see  more  than  a  foot  ahead,  and  when 
he  would  stumble  over  a  stone  or  the  fallen  trunk 
of  a  tree,  he  would  stoop  down  and  search 
through  the  drifts  with  his  bare  hands,  thinking 
perhaps  that  she  might  have  fallen,  and  not  find 
ing  her,  he  would  again  take  up  his  fruitless 
search,  while  cold  fear  gnawed  at  his  heart 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

At  home  in  the  warm  farm  house,  sat  the 
Squire  who  had  done  his  duty.  The  conscious 
ness  of  having  done  it,  however,  did  not  fill  him 
with  that  cheerful  glow  of  righteousness  that  is 
the  reward  of  a  good  conscience — on  the  con 
trary,  he  felt  small.  It  might  have  been  imagina 
tion,  but  he  felt,  somehow,  as  if  his  wife  and  Kate 
were  shunning  him.  Once  he  had  tried  to  take 
his  wife's  hand  as  she  stood  with  her  face  pressed 
to  the  window  trying  to  see  if  she  could  make  out 
the  dim  outline  of  David  returning  with  Anna, 
but  she  withdrew  her  hand  impatiently  as  she 
had  never  done  in  the  thirty  years  of  their  mar 
ried  life.  Amasy's  hardness  was  a  thing  no 
longer  to  be  condoned. 

Furthermore,  when  the  clock  had  struck  eleven 
and  then  twelve,  and  yet  no  sign  of  David  or  An 
na,  the  Squire  had  reached  for  his  fur  cap  and  an 
nounced  his  intention  of  "going  to  look  for  'em." 
But  like  the  proverbial  worm,  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  had  turned,  and  with  all  the  determination 
of  a  white  rabbit  she  announced: 

"If  I  was  you,  Amasy,  I'd  stay  to  hum ;  seems 
as  if  you  had  made  almost  enough  trouble  for 


180  WAY    DOWN    BAST. 

one  day."  With  the  old  habit  of  authority, 
strong  as  ever,  he  looked  at  the  worm,  but  there 
was  a  light  in  its  eyes  that  warned  him  as  a  dan 
ger  signal. 

They  were  alone  together,  the  Squire  and  his 
wife,  and  each  was  alone  in  sorrow,  the  yoke  of 
severity  she  had  bowed  beneath  for  thirty  years 
uncomplainingly  galled  to-night.  It  had  sent  her 
boy  out  into  the  storm — perhaps  to  his  death. 
There  was  little  love  in  her  heart  for  Amasy. 

He  tried  to  think  that  he  had  only  dojie  his 
duty,  that  David  and  Anna  would  come  back,  and 
that,  in  the  meantime,  Louisa  was  less  a  comfort 
to  him,  in  his  trouble,  than  she  had  ever  been 
before.  It  was,  of  course,  his  trouble;  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Louisa's  heart  might  have 
been  breaking  on  its  own  account. 

The  Squire  found  that  duty  was  a  cold  com 
forter  as  the  wretched  hours  wore  on. 

Sanderson  had  slunk  from  the  house  without 
a  word  immediately  after  Anna's  departure.  In 
the  general  upheaval  no  one  missed  him,  and 
when  they  did  it  was  too  late  for  them  to  enjo# 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

the  comfort  of  shifting  the  blame  to  his  guilty 
{shoulders. 

The  professor  followed  Kate  with  the  mute 
sympathy  of  a  faithful  dog;  he  did  not  dare  at 
tempt  to  comfort  her.  The  sight  of  a  woman  in 
tears  unnerved  him ;  he  would  not  have  dared  to 
intrude  on  her  grief;  he  could  only  wait  patiently 
for  some  circumstance  to  arise  in  which  he  could 
be  of  assistance.  In  the  meantime  he  did  tha 
only  practical  thing  within  his  power — he  went 
about  from  time  to  time,  poked  the  fires  and  put 
on  coal. 

Marthy  would  have  liked  to  discuss  the  iniquity 
of  Lennox  Sanderson  with  any  one — it  was  a 
subject  on  which  she  could  have  spent  hours— 
but  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  divert  Marthy  con? 
versationally.  In  fact,  her  popularity  was  not 
greater  that  night  in  the  household  than  that  of 
the  Squire.  She  spent  her  time  in  running  from 
room  to  room,  exclaiming  hysterically: 

"Land  sakes!    Ain't  it  dreadful?" 

The  tension  grew  as  time  wore  on  without  de 
velopments  of  any  kind,  the  waiting  with  the 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

haunting  fear  of  the  worst  grew  harder  to  bear 
than  absolute  calamity. 

Toward  five  o'clock  the  Squire  announced  his 
intention  of  going  out  and  continuing  the  search, 
and  this  time  no  one  objected.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett,  Kate  and  the  professor  insisted  on  accom 
panying  him  and  Marthy  decided  to  go,  too,  not 
only  that  she  might  be  able  to  say  she  was  on 
hand  in  case  of  interesting  developments,  but 
because  she  was  afraid  to  be  left  in  the  house 
alone. 


Toward  morning,  David,  spent  and  haggard, 
wandered  into  a  little  maple-sugar  shed  that  be 
longed  to  one  of  the  neighbors.  Smoke  was  com 
ing  out  of  the  chimney,  and  David  entered, 
hoping  that  Anna  might  have  found  here  a  re 
fuge. 

He  was  quickly  undeceived,  however,  for  Len 
nox  Sanderson  stood  by  the  hearth  warming  his 
hands.  The  men  glared  at  each  other  with  the 
instinctive  fierceness  of  panthers.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken;  each  knew  that  the  language  of 


WAY    DOWN     EAST.  183 

fisfcs  could  be  the  only  medium  of  communication 
between  them ;  and  each  was  anxious  to  have  his 
say  out. 

The  men  faced  each  other  in  silence,  the  flick- 
ering  glare  of  the  firelight  painting  grotesque 
expressions  on  their  set  faces.  David's  greater 
bulk  loomed  unnaturally  large  in  the  uncertain 
light,  while  every  trained  muscle  of  Sanderson's 
athletic  body  was  on  the  alert. 

It  was  the  world  old  struggle  between  patri 
cian  and  proletarian. 

Sanderson  was  an  all-round  athlete  and  a 
boxer  of  no  mean  order.  This  was  not  his  first 
battle.  His  quick  eye  showed  him  from  David's 
awkward  attitude,  that  his  opponent  was  in  no 
way  his  equal  from  a  scientific  standpoint.  He 
looked  for  the  easy  victory  that  science,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  can  wrest  from  unskilled  brute 
force. 

For,  perhaps,  half  a  minute  the  combatants 
stood  thus. 

Then,  with  lowered  head  and  outstretched 
arms,  David  rushed  in. 

Sanderson  side-stepped,  avoiding  the  on -set. 


WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

Before  David  could  recover  himself,  the  other 
had  sent  his  left  fist  crashing  into  the  country 
man's  face. 

The  blow  was  delivered  with  all  the  trained 
force  the  athlete  possessed  and  sent  David  reel 
ing  against  the  rough  wall  of  the  house. 

Such  a  blow  would  have  ended  the  fight  then 
and  there  for  an  ordinary  man ;  but  it  only  served 
to  rouse  David's  sluggish  blood  to  white  heat. 

Again  he  rushed. 

This  time  he  was  more  successful. 

True,  Sanderson  partially  succeeded  in  avoid 
ing  the  sledge-hammer  fist,  though  it  missed  his 
head,  it  struck  glancingly  on  the  left  shoulder, 
numbing  for  the  moment  the  whole  arm.  San 
derson  countered  as  the  blow  fell,  by  bringing  his 
right  arm  up  with  all  his  force  and  striking  David 
on  the  face.  He  sank  to  his  knees,  like  a  wounded 
bull,  but  was  on  his  feet  again  before  Sanderson 
could  follow  up  his  advantage. 

David,  heedless  of  the  pain  and  fast  flowing 
blood,  rushed  a  third  time,  catching  Sanderson 
in  a  corner  of  the  room  whence  he  could  not 
escape. 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  185 

In  an  instant,  the  two  were  locked  in  a  death 
like  grip. 

To  and  fro  they  reeled.  No  sound  could  be 
heard  save  the  snapping  of  brands  on  the  hearth, 
the  shuffle  of  moving  feet  and  the  short  gasps  of 
struggling  men. 

In  that  terrible  grasp,  Sanderson's  strength 
was  as  a  child's. 

He  could  not  call  into  play  any  of  the  wrest 
ling  tricks  that  were  his,  all  he  could  do  was  to 
keep  his  feet  and  wait  for  the  madman's  strength 
to  expend  itself. 

The  iron  grip  about  his  body  seemed  to  slacken 
for  a  moment.  He  wriggled  free,  and  caught  the 
fatal  underhold. 

By  this  new  grip,  he  forced  David's  body  back 
ward  till  the  larger  man's  spine  bade  fair  to  snap. 

David  felt  himself  caught  in  a  trap.  Exerting 
all  his  giant  strength  he  forced  one  arm  down 
between  their  close-locked  bodies,  and  clasped 
his  other  hand  on  Sanderson's  face,  pushing  two 
fingers  into  his  eyeballs. 

No  man  can  endure  this  torture.  Sanderson 
loosed  his  hold.  David  had  caught  him  by  the 


WAY1    DOWN    EAST. 

right  wrist  and  the  left  knee,  stooping  until  his 
own  shoulders  were  under  the  other' s  thigh. 
Then,  with  this  leverage,  he  whirled  Sanderson 
high  in  the  air  above  his  head  and  threw  him  with 
all  his  force  down  upon  the  hearth. 

A  shower  of  sparks  arose  and  the  strong  smell 
of  burning  clothes,  as  Sanderson,  stunned  and 
helpless,  lay  across  the  blazing  fire-place. 

For  a  moment,  David  thought  to  leave  his  van 
quished  foe  to  his  own  fate,  then  he  turned  back. 
What  was  the  use?  It  could  not  right  the  wrong 
he  had  done  to  Anna.  He  bent  over  Sanderson, 
extinguished  the  fire,  pulled  the  unconscious  man 
to  the  open  door  and  left  him. 

It  came  to  David  like  an  inspiration  that  he 
had  not  thought  of  the  lake;  the  ice  was  thin  on 
the  southern  shore  below  where  the  river  emptied. 
Suppose  she  had  gone  there;  suppose  in  her  utter 
desolation  she  had  gone  there  to  end  it  all?  Im 
agination,  quickened  by  suspense  and  suffering, 
ran  to  meet  calamity;  already  he  was  there  and 
saw  the  bare  trees,  bearing  their  burden  of  snow, 
and  the  placid  surface,  half  frozen  over,  and  on 
the  southern  shore,  that .  faintly  rippled  under 


WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

its  skimming  of  ice,  something  dark  floating.  He 
saw  the  floating  black  hair,  and  the  dead  eyes, 
open,  as  if  in  accusation  of  the  grim  injustice  of 
it  all. 

He  hurried  through  the  drifted  snow,  as  fast 
as  his  spent  strength  would  permit,  stumbling 
once  or  twice  over  some  obstruction,  and  covered 
the  weary  distance  to  the  lake. 

About  a  hundred  yards  from  the  lake  Dave  saw 
something  that  made  his  heart  knock  against  his 
libs  and  his  breath  come  short,  as  if  he  had  been 
running.  It  was  Anna's  gray  cloak.  It  lay 
spread  out  on  the  snow  as  if  it  had  been  discarded 
hastily ;  there  were  footprints  of  a  woman's  shoes 
near  by;  some  of  them  leading  toward  the  lake, 
others  away  from  it,  as  if  she  might  have  come 
and  her  courage  failed  her  at  the  last  moment. 
The  cape  had  not  the  faintest  trace  of  snow  on  its 
upturned  surface.  It  must,  therefore,  have  been 
discarded  lately,  after  the  snowstorm  had  ceased 
this  morning. 

Dave  continued  his  search  in  an  agony  of  ap 
prehension.  The  sun  faintly  struggled  with  the 
mass  of  gray  cloud,  revealing  a  world  of  white. 


188  WAY    DOWN    EAST. 

He  had  wandered  in  the  direction  of  a  clump  ol 
cedars,  and  remembered  pointing  the  place  out 
to  her  in  the  autumn  as  the  scene  of  some  boyish 
adventure,  which  to  commemorate  he  had  cut 
Ms  name  on  one  of  the  trees.  Association,  more 
than  any  hope  of  finding  her,  led  him  to  the 
cedars — and  she  was  there.  She  had  fallen, 
Apparently,  from  cold  and  exhaustion.  He  bent 
down  close  to  the  white,  still  face  that  gave  no 
sign  of  life.  He  called  her  name,  he  kissed  her, 
but  there  was  no  response — it  was  too  late. 

Dave  looked  at  the  little  figure  prostrate  in  the 
snow,  and  despair  for  a  time  deprived  him  of  all 
thought.  Then  the  lifelong  habit  of  being  prac 
tical  asserted  itself.  Unconsciousness  from  long 
exposure  to  cold,  he  knew,  resembled  death,  but 
warmth  and  care  would  often  revive  the  flutter 
ing  spark.  If  there  was  a  chance  in  a  thousand, 
Dave  was  prepared  to  fight  the  world  for  it. 

He  lifted  Anna  tenderly  and  started  back  for 
the  shed  where  he  had  fought  Sanderson.  Frail 
as  she  was,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  he  plunged 
through  the  drifts,  that  his  strength  would  never 
hold  out  till  they  reached  their  destination.  Inch 


WAY    DOWN    EAST.  189 

by  inch  he  struggled  for  every  step  of  the  way, 
and  the  sweat  dripped  from  him  as  if  it  had  been 
August.  But  he  was  more  than  rewarded,  for 
once.  She  opened  her  eyes — she  was  not  dead. 

He  found  them  all  at  the  shed — the  Squire,  his 
mother,  Kate,  the  professor  and  Marthy.  There 
was  no  time  for  questions  or  speeches.  Every  one 
bent  with  a  will  toward  the  common  object  of 
restoring  Anna.  The  professor  ran  for  the  doc 
tor,  the  women  chafed  the  icy  hands  and  feet  and 
the  Squire  built  up  a  roaring  fire.  Their  efforts 
were  finally  rewarded  and  the  big  brown  eyes 
opened  and  turned  inquiringly  from  one  to  an 
other. 

"What  has  happened?  Why  are  you  all  here?" 
she  asked  faintly ;  then  remembering,  she  wailed : 
"Oh?  why  did  you  bring  me  back?  I  went  to  the 
lake,  but  it  was  so  cold  I  could  not  throw  myself 
in ;  then  I  walked  about  till  almost  sunrise,  and 
I  was  so  tired  that  I  laid  down  by  the  cedars  to 
sleep — why  did  you  waue  me?" 

"Anna,"  said  the  Squire,  "we  want  you  to  for 
give  us  and  come  back  as  our  daughter,"  and  he 
«lipped  her  cold  little  hand  in  David's.  "This 


19Q  WAY    DOWN     EAST. 

boy  lias  been  looking  for  you  all  night,  Anna.  I 
thought  maybe  he  had  been  taken  from  us  to  pun 
ish  me  for  my  hardness.  But,  thank  God,  you 
are  both  safe." 

"You  will,  Anna,  won't  you?  and  father  will 
give  us  his  blessing."  She  smiled  her  assent. 

"I  say,  Squire,  if  you  are  giving  out  blessings, 
don't  pass  by  Kate  and  me." 

In  the  general  kissing  and  congratulation  that 
followed,  Hi  Holler  appeared.  "Here's  the  sleight 
I  thought  maybe  you'd  all  be  ready  for  breakfast. 
Hallo,  Anna,  so  he  found  you !  The  station  agent 
told  me  that  Mr.  Sanderson  left  on  the  first  train 
for  Boston  this  morning.  Says  he  ain't  never 
coming  back." 

"And  a  good  thing  he  ain't,"  snapped  Martlvy 
Perkins — "after  all  the  trouble  he's  made." 


THE  END. 


OGILVIE'S  POPULAR  COPYRIGHT  LINE 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  RAVENS- 
PURS.  By  Fred  H.  White.  A  romantic 
tale  of  adventure,  mystery  and  amateur 
detective  work,  with  scenes  laid  in  Eng 
land,  India,  and  the  distant  and  compara 
tively  unknown  Thibet.  A  band  of  mys 
tics  from  the  latter  country  are  the  prime 
movers  in  the  various  conspiracies,  and 
their  new,  unique,  weird,  strange  methods 
form  one  of  the  features  of  the  story. 

THE   FORGED  COUPON.     By   Count 

Leo  Tolstoi.  This  story  shows  the  suc 
cessive  evil  and  wrong  resulting  from  the 
forging  of  a  note  by  a  student  in  need  of 
money.  Numerous  crimes  succeed  each  other  as  a  result  of 
this  first  wrong  act,  until  the  wave  of  crime  is  checked  by  a 
poor,  ignorant  woman  and  a  lame  tailor,  who  follow  the  real 
teaching  of  Christ.  The  book  contains  also  After  the  Ball,  a 
story  of  love  and  military  life ;  Korney  Vastly  evt  a  story  of 
peasant  life ;  Tolstoi's  Vital  Humanitarian  Ideas,  giving  the 
very  essence  of  the  fountain-spring  and  incentive  of  all  the 
literary  work  ever  written  by  this  wonderful  man— a  peep,  as 
it  were,  at  the  power-works  of  his  thinking  machine. 

THE  KRHUTZER  SONATA.     By  Count  Leo  Tolstoi.    A 

book  which  has  a  world-wide  'reputation,  in  fact,  the  one  that 
made  its  author  famous,  and  one  which  everyone  of  mature 
years  should  read.  The, closing  words  of  the  book  show  the 
nature  of  the  moral  to  be  deduced  :  "  Yes,  that  is  what  I  have 
done,  that  is  my  experience.  We  must  understand  the  real 
meaning  of  the  words  of  the  Gospel— Matthew  V,  28— which 
relate  to  the  wife,  to  the  sister,  and  not  only  to  the  wife  of 
another,  but  especially  to  one's  own  wife."  The  moral  lesson 
to  be  learned  is  plainly  visible,  and  its  solution  is  the  solution 
of  the  ' 'higher  mind.' * 

ANNA  KARENINE.  By  Count  Leo  Tolstoi.  Another  story 
by  this  famous  Russian,  depicting  the  trials  and  temptations 
that  beset  a  young  woman,  showing  the  development  of  charac 
ter  under  trying  ordeals  and  circumstances.  Second  only  to 
the  author's  Kreutzer  Sonata,  for  his  perfec*vinderstanding  of 
the  impulses  that  govern  the  relations  of  the  sexes. 

The  above  books  are  library  size,  printed  on  excellent 

paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  in  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  75  cents  each,   unless   otherwise  stated. 

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"FOHA  GORDEYEV."  By  Maxime  Gorky.  This  book 
made  Gorky's  literary  reputation  in  Russia,  Germany  and 
France.  It  is  a  most  remarkable  novel.  The  New  York 
Evening  Post  says : 

«' Maxime  Gorky,  the  young  Russian  poet  of  the  vagabond  and  the 
proletariat,  the  most  ardent  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of  Nietzsche  and  his 
ideal  'Over-Man,'  owes  much  of  his  sudden  popularity  to  his  personality. 
The  son  of  a  poor  upholsterer,  Gorky  was  thrown  upon  his  own  resources 
at  the  age  of  nine,  and  since  then  has  experienced  a  wide  range  of  human 
emotions,  struggles,  depravity  and  misery.  Shoemaker,  apple  peddler, 
painter,  dock-hand,  railroad  workman,  baker  and  tramp,  this  unique 
author  had  a  thousand  and  one  similar  occupations,  and  had  even  made 
more  than  one  attempt  to  take  his  own  life." 

This  version  of  Foma  Gordeyev,  is  in  no  way  abridged,  giving  the 
exact  reproduction  of  the  thought  and  expression  of  the  author. 

THE  SEVEN  WHO  WERE 
HANGED.  By  Leonid  An 
dreyev.  What  reviewers  say : 

"Andreyev  is  greater  than  Poe — 
greater  for  his  truth  if  not  for  his 
art."— St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"  It  is  by  reason  of  its  art  even  more 
real,  more  horrify  ing.more  impress 
ive  than  any  other  Russian  fiction 
translated  in  a  long  time.  Under  the 
crystal  simplicity  of  Andreyev's  style 
each  spirit  reveals  itself,  stripped  of 
its  bodily  covering,  in  its  inmost 
truth."— New  York;  Times. 

"  Grewsome,  because  it  is  fearfully 
real.  But  it  is  compelling  for  the 
samejreason."— New  York  World. 

"You  rise  from  the  book  with  a 
shudder— which  is  a  tribute  to  its 
power— ^and  with  the  firm  conviction 
that  capital  punishment  is  a  crime— 
another  tribute  to  its  author's  genius."— J 

"  It  is  not  a  mere  morbid  probing  into  the  abormal  and  horrible.    It  hns 
its  mission.    It  is  a  grim  and  terrible  picture,  and  It  is  painted  with  tre 
mendous  art— the  art  of  a  Do  re." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 
Price,  60  cents,  postpaid. 

THE  SHORT  CUT.  By  G.  Elliott  Flint.  A  novel  of  tense, 
palpitating,  throbbing,  passionate  life  and  love,  with  scenes  laid 
around  New  York's  "Great  White  Way,"  setting  forth  the  con 
flicting  tendencies  of  good  and  evil,  worldly  desire  and  control 
of  self.  The  magnetism  of  sex  is  the  pivot  on  whiah  the  world 
revolves.  The  truth  is  inevitable.  Why  close  our  eyes  to  facts  ? 

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paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  In  cloth. 

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THE  EflPEROR'S  CANDLESTICKS. 
By  Baroness  Orczy.  A  story  of  Nihilism 
and  Russian  Court  intrigue,  in  which  a 
powerful  band  of  Nihilists  with  strong 
Court  connections  have  their  most 
cherished  plans  frustrated  through  the 
miscarriage  of  one  of  their  messages  con 
cealed  in  one  of  the  candlesticks,  the  other 
candlestick  bearing  a  message  concerning 
a  secret  love  affair  of  the  Russian  Em 
peror.  The  complications  which  ensue 
keep  the  reader  at  a  tense  pitch  of  excite 
ment,  which  is  only  assuaged  when  the 
story  ends ;  how,  of  course  it  would  not  be 
fair  to  say.  The  Baroness  Orczy  is  sufficiently  well  known  as  an 
author,  however,  to  guarantee  a  pleasurable  and  profitable  book. 

THE  SILENT  BATTLE.    By  Hrs.  C.  N.  Williamson.    The 

battle  in  question  is  between  a  powerful,  well-known  multi 
millionaire  of  London,  and  a  beautiful,  talented,  charming 
young  actress  who  rejects  the  approaches  and  attentions  of  the 
former.  She  is  ably  assisted  in  her  fight  for  existence  by  a 
strong,  handsome  American,  who  is  in  London  on  a  secret 
quest.  Their  paths  meet,  and  they  eventually  work  together 
against  the  common  enemy.  Honor,  love,  position,  and  a  for 
tune  are  the  prizes  of  battle,  arid  its  fighting  is  told  in  the  in 
teresting  way  for  which  Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson  is  justly  famous. 

THE  TESTING  OF  OLIVE  VAUGHAN. 
By  Percy  J.  Brebner.  A  story  of  the 
stage  showing  the  temptations  to  which 
every  aspirant  for  theatrical  fame  and 
fortune  is  subject,  and  showing  too,  how, 
through  right  decisions  and  correct  judg 
ment  based  on  inborn  and  developing 
strength  of  character  one  is  able  to  rise 
superior  to  her  surroundings  and  wrest 
a  great  success.  This  is  not  easy  to 
accomplish,  however,  and  its  telling, 
which  shows  a  fine  literary  style  and  un 
questioned  powers  of  characterization  and 
description,  is  what  makes  the  author  one 
of  the  most  popular  among  fiction  writers  of  the  present  day. 

The  above  books  are  library  size,  printed  on  excellent 

paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  In  cloth. 

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THE  PEER  AND  THE  WOMAN.  By  E.  Phillips  Oppen- 
heim.  A  story  of  romance,  mystery,  and  adventure,  in  which 
a  peer  of  England,  notwithstanding  his  breeding  and  social 
position,  becpmes  entangled  with  a  scheming  adventuress,  until 
he  is  mysteriously  put  out  of  the  way.  From  this  point  on  com 
plication  and  adventure  succeed  each  other  in  rapid  succession, 
holding  the  reader  in  rapt  fascination  to  the  end,  where  the  plots 
of  love  and  mysterious  disappearances  are  surprisingly  unfolded. 

A  HONK  OF  CRUTA.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenhehn.    One  of 

the  stories  that  made  the  author  famous.  It  is  full  of  mys 
tery,  love  and  adventure,  and  from  the  first  chapter,  which  is 
laid  in  a  familiar  and  well-known  monastery,  to  the  last,  the 
reader  follows  the  characters  with  increasing  interest.  It  is 
the  kind  of  a  book  to  take  away  over  the  holidays,  or  read  in 
the  evenings  at  home,  as  it  has  that  "grip"  which  makes 
it  a  relaxation  to  read.  It  banishes  care  and  trouble,  and  lifts 
you  out  of  yourself  by  its  strongly  woven  plot. 

THE  NEW  MAYOR.  Founded  upon 
George  Broadhurst's  Play  The  Man  of  the 
Hour.  A  strong  story  of  politics,  love 
and  graft,  which  appeals  powerfully  to 
every  true  American.  The  play  has  re- 
reived  the  highest  praise  and  commenda 
tion  from  critics  and  the  press. 

"The  finest  play  I  ever  saw." 

—THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 


"The  best  in  years."— N.  T.  Telegram. 

•'  A  triumph."— N.  Y.  American. 

"  A  sensation."— -V.  T.  HeraW,. 

"  Means  something."— N.  T.  Tribune. 

"  Best  play  vet."— N.  T.  Commercial. 

"A  play  worth  while."— N.  Y.  News. 
"  A  straight  hit."— IT.  Y.  Worla.  ••  An  apt  appeal."—^.  Y.  Glob*. 

"  A  perfect  success."— AT.  F.  Sun.  "An  object  lesson."— .ZV.  Y.  Post. 

Price,  60  cents,  postpaid. 

WHITE  DANDY,  The  Story  of  a  Horse.    By  V.  C.  Helville. 

Everyone  interested  in  horses  should  read  this  charming  story. 
It  stands  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  famous  book  Black 
Beauty  for  pathos,  heart  interest  and  gentleness.  If  the  two 
books  above  mentioned  were  read  with  all  the  attention  which 
they  should  command,  we  would  have  less  cause  to  complain 
of  the  cruelty  to  animals  from  brutal  masters.  Price,  50 
cents,  postpaid. 

The  above  books  are  library  size,  printed  on  excellent 

paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  in  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  75  cents  each,   unless   otherwise  stated. 

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'THEMANINTHESTREEf 
STORIES 

from  T/teMwyork  7/mes 


THE  DEVIL.  By  Ferenc  flolnar.  A  strong,  moral  book, 
showing  in  a  vivid,  realistic  manner  the  result  of  evil  thinking. 
The  Devil  in  this  story  is  evil  thinking  materialized.  It  deals 
with  the  early  love  of  a  poor  artist  and  a  poor  maiden.  As  the 
years  go  by  the  artist  achieves  distinction,  and  the  maiden 
becomes  the  wife  of  a  millionaire  merchant  —  with  very 
little  romance  in  his  composition,  but  thoroughly  devoted  to 
his  young  and  beautiful  bride.  Seven  years  later  the  artist 
(who  has  been  received  as  a  valued  friend  of  the  family)  is 
commissioned  to  paint  the  wife's  portrait— and  the  old  love 
reasserts  itself.  For  a  while  the  issue  is  problematical ;  but 
stability  of  character  conquers,  and  the  ending  is  quite  as  the 
heart  would  wish.  Price,  60  cents,  postpaid. 

THE  "MAN  IN  THE  STREET 
STORIES."  From  The  New  York 
Times,  with  an  introduction  by  Chaun- 
cey  M.  Depew,  who  says  of  theip:  "This 
collection  of  stories  is  my  refresher 
every  Sunday  after  the  worry  and  work 
of  the  week.  I  know  of  no  effort  which 
has  been  so  successful  in  collecting  real 
anecdotes  and  portraying  the  humorous 
side  of  life  as  this  volume."  It  is  pre 
pared  with  a  complete  index,  which  in 
creases  its  value  very  much.  Read 
what  reviewers  all  over  the  country 
say  of  the  book : 

"It  is  a  great  collection,  and  the  reading  of 
it  is  a  treat."— Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

"The  kind  of  a  book  we  call  a  'capital 
thing.'  Its  humor  is  of  the  best  flavor."— 
Minneapolis  Times. 

"  Warranted  to  amuse."— Boston  Journal. 

"  Probably  no  book  of  its  kind  excells  this  one."— Detroit  Free  Press. 

"The  anecdotes  are  exceptionally  entertaining,  full  of  humor,  wit  and 
Wisdom,  and  may  be  read  with  genuine  pleasure." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

"Full  of  good  things."— Phttaaelphla  Inquirer. 

NATHAN  HALE,  The  Hartyr  Spy.    By  Chas.  W.  Brown. 

This  is  a  story  of  the  American  Revolution,  founded  upon  the 
play  of  the  same  name,  upon  a  subject  which  will  never  grow 
old  as  this  brave  man's  name  will  go  down  in  history  as  a  hero,  as 
a  martyr,  whose  famous  saying,  "  My  only  regret  is  that  I  have 
but  one  poor  life  to  give  to  my  country,"  is  world- wide  known. 
Price,  50  cents,  postpaid. 

The  above  books  are  library  size,  printed  on  excellent 

paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  In  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  75  cents  each,   unless   otherwise  stated. 

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W/tA  Introduction  6y 

CHAUNCEY  M. DEPEW 


OGILVIE'S  POPULAR  COPYRIGHT  LINE 


ARSENE  LUPIN,  Gentleman  Burglar, 
and  ARSENE  LUPIN  versus  HERLOCK 
SHOLflES.  By  Maurice  Leblanc.  Mau 
rice  Leblanc  can  be  compared  only  to  A. 
Conan  Doyle.  With  Sherlock  Holmes  one 
is  each  time  facing  a  new  robbery  and  a 
new  crime.  With  Arsene  Lupin  we  know 
in  advance  he  is  the  guilty  one.  We  know, 
that  when  we  shall  have  unravelled  the 
tangled  threads  of  the  story,  we  shall  find 
ourselves  facing  the  famous  Gentleman 
Burglar.  But  with  the  aid  of  processes 
which  the  most  adept  are  not  able  to 
fathom,  the  author  holds  your  attention  to  the  very  end  of  each 
adventure,  and  the  dramatic  termination  is  always  the  unex 
pected.  Arsene  Lupin  does  not  steal,  he  simply  amuses  him 
self  by  stealing.  He  chooses,  at  need  he  restores.  He  is  noble, 
charming,  chivalrous,  delicate.  Thief  and  burglar,  robber 
and  confidence  man,  anything  you  could  wish,  but  so  sympa 
thetic—the  bandit !  If  you  appreciate  skill,  ability,  resourceful 
ness,  and  a  battle  between  master-minds,  do  not  fail  to  read 
these  two  books. 

A  GENTLEMAN  FROM  MISSISSIPPI.  A  novel  founded 
upon  the  play  of  the  same  name. 
Senator  Langdon  is  picked  out  by  dis 
honest  men  in  Washington  to  be  used 
as  their  tool  in  the  Senate.  But  the 
"tool"  proves  to  be  sharp  at  both 
ends  and  cuts  the  men  who  mean  to 
cheat  the  people.  Honesty  attracts 
honesty,  and  Langdon  draws  to  his 
side  as  his  secretary  "Bud"  Haines, 
one  who  is  as  shrewd  as  the  dishonest 
senators,  and  together  they  prove 
more  than  a  match  for  all  the  rascal 
ity  in  Washington.  Just  how  Lang 
don  accomplishes  his  ends  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  book 
—and  even  Langdon  himself  doesn't 
know  how  he  is  going  to  win  out  until  the  last  moment— then 
he  wins  by  simple  honesty.  Price,  60  cents,  postpaid. 

The  above  books  are  library  size,  printed  on  excellent 
paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  in  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  75  cents  each,   unless   otherwise   stated. 


A  GENTLEMAN 

FROM 

MISSISSIPPI 


J.  S.  OQILVIE  PUBLISHING  COriPANY 

57  Rose  Street,  New  York 


OQILVIE'S  POPULAR  COPYRIGHT  LLNE 


RESURRECTION.  By  Count  Leo  Tolstoi.  It  depicts  with 
a  master  hand  the  ocean  of  life  rocked  by  storm  and  lulled  to 
sleep  and  ease.  In  the  splash  of  every  wave  is  heard  the  story 
of  human  emotions,  misery,  disenchantment,  suffering,  crime, 
and  life,  that  is  true— even  in  art.  Nekhludov,  the  central 
figure,  is  a  powerful,  unfathomable  stroke  of  artistic  genius. 
He  is  not  always  a  hero— he  is  a  man— hence  heir  to  weakness 
and  temptation.  Passion  runs  wild  in  him.  The  beast,  the 
flesh,  triumph  over  the  spirit.  In  wine,  women,  and  corruption 
he  forgets  the  victim  of  his  crime,  and  were  it  not  for  an 
almost  improbable  coincidence,  his  soul,  his  conscience,  would 
never  awaken.  But  he  becomes  a  new  man;  and  it  is  the 
telling  of  this  which  gives  Resurrection  its  power. 

THE    HOUSE   BY   THE    RIVER. 

By  Florence  Warden.    A  wonderful 


THE  HOUSE 
2/THE  RIVER 


FLORENCE  WARDEN 


story  of  mystery  and  romance,  one  in 
which,  to  the  reader's  mind,  every 
character  in  the  book  is  guilty  until 
the  end  is  reached.  Read  what  the 
reviewers  say  of  it : 

"Florence  Warden  is  the  Anna  Katharine 
Green  of  England.  She  apparently  has  the 
same  marvelous  capacity  as  Mrs.  Eohlfs  for 
concocting  the  most  complicated  plots  and 
most  mystifying  mysteries." — N.  Y.  GU>be. 

"  The  interest  of  the  story  is  deep  and 
intense."— Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

"  The  author  has  a  knack  of  intricate  plot- 
work  which  will  keep  an  intelligent  reader 
at  her  books,  when  he  would  become  tired 
over  far  better  novels.  For  even  the  *  wisest 
men '  MOW  and  then  relish  not  only  a  little 
nonsense,  but  as  well  do  they  enjoy  a  thrill 
ing  story  of  mystery.  And  this  is  one— a  dar 
if  not  convincing  tale."— Sacramento  Bee. 

THE  WORLD'S  FINGER.     By  T.  W.  Hanshew.     It  is  a 

scientific  theory  that  the  retina  of  the  eye  of  a  dying  person 
will  retain  the  impression,  or  photograph,  as  you  might  call  it, 
of  any  object  that  it  rests  upon  if  seen  at  the  instant  of  death. 
The  World's  Finger  is  a  detective  story  in  which  this  theory 
plays  a  prominent  part.  A  lawyer  wrote  us  stating  that  he 
never  before  read  a  book  in  which  the  chain  of  convicting 
evidence  was  so  complete,  but  in  which  the  suspected  criminal 
was  finally  found  innocent. 

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is  is  one— a  dark,  deep,  awesome,  compelling 
-  * 


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THE  FORTUNES  OF  BETTY.  By  Cecil  Spooner.  Love, 
romance,  pathos,  sympathy,  martial  spirit,  reverence,  action 
—all  have  their  place  a«d  a  share  in  the  success-making  and 
attention-holding  qualities  of  Miss  Spooner's  novel.  It  is  a 
story  of  a  small-town  girl,  who  strives  to  keep  the  honor  of 
the  family  name  intact,  and  who  by  her  ability,  ready  wit,  and 
bravery,  succeeds  in  overcoming  the  machinations  of  rich  and 
powerful  enemies.  The  admiration  and  reverence  due  the  Stars 
and  Stripes,  and  those  who  fought  under  them,  is  graphically 
depicted;  and  Betty's  difficulties  in  winning  the  love  of  the 
man  upon  whom  her  affections  are  bestowed  are  admirably  set 
forth.  It  is  pure  in  thought,  tender  in  motive,  and  true  to  £he 
higher  ideals  of  life  and  love.  Price,  60  cents,  postpaid. 

THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  PRINCESS. 

The  writer  has  taken  a  page  from  her  life 
and  has  given  it  to  the  world.  She  has 
laid  bare  the  soul  of  a  woman,  that  some 
ether  woman  (or  some  man)  might  profit 
thereby.  Her  disposition  and  character 
were  such  as  to  compel  her  to  find  else 
where  than  in  her  own  home  the  love,  ten 
derness,  admiration,  and  society  which 
was  lacking  there,  and  which  her  being 
craved.  The  names  have  been  changed 
and  such  events  omitted  as  might  lead  too 
readily  to  the  discovery  of  identities. 
Each  the  victim  of  a  circumstance  over 
which  they  had  no  control,  yet  the  price  is  demanded  of  the  one 
who  fell  the  victim  of  environment.  The  Confessions  of  a 
Princess  is  the  story  of  a  woman  who  saw,  conquered  and  fell. 

'WAY  DOWN  EAST.    By  Joseph  R.  Grismer.    One  of  the 

sweetest  stories  of  New  England  life  ever  written ;  one  full  of 
the  love  and  tenderness  made  possible  by  honest  Christian  living 
among  pure,  whole-hearted,  and  broad-minded  country  folks. 
This  book  is  founded  upon  the  play,  which,  with  ever-increasing 
popularity,  has  been  presented  so  often  to  the  American  public. 
Over  300,000  copies  of  the  book  have  been  sold.  Have  you  read 
it?  If  not,  why  not  get  it  now?  Price.  60  cents,  postpaid. 

ONE  HUNDRED  DOG  STORIES;  or,  Dogs  of  All  Nations. 

This  collection  of  stories  grew  naturally  out  of  a  child's  demand 
for  more,  and  still  more,  stories  about  dogs.  They  teach  a 
strong  moral  lesson  of  love,  honesty  and  fidelity.  76  illustrations. 

The  above  books  are  Hhrary  size,  printed  on  excellent 

paper,  handsomely  and  substantially  bound  in  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  75  cents  each,   unless   otherwise  stated. 

J.  S.  OQILVIE  PUBLISHING  COHPANY 

57  Rose  Street,  New  York 


MYSTERIOUS  MARTIN. 

A  psychological  study  of  the   develop 
ment  of  character  along  unusual  lines. 

BY 

TOD    ROBBINS. 

12mo,  cloth,  with  frontispiece.    Price,  $1.00,  postpaid. 

ooo 
WHAT  THE  CRITICS  SAY  OF  IT. 

"Is  a  book  of  horror,  but  is  so  well  written  and  so  cleverly 
conceived,  that  it  should  receive  due  credit.  Its  title  character 
is  a  writer  who  excels  Poe  in  describing  horrors,  and  who  be 
comes  more  insane  with  each  succeeding  year  until  he  kills  him 
self.  He  must  see  or  experience  every  emotion  he  describes,  and 
he  has  murdered  and  investigated  murder  so  as  to  allow  his 
genius  full  play  in  his  writing  and  in  the  illustrating  of  his 
books.  One  of  his  books  is  so  powerful  that  it  causes  an 
epidemic  of  murder  in  New  York,  and  is  suppressed  by  the 
government.  The  book  has  no  lack  of  interest  and  its  climax  is 
brilliantly  imaginative." — S/.  Joseph  News  Press. 

"A  gruesome  story  with  a  touch  of  haunting  mystery  about 
it  that  holds  one  interested  to  the  end.  Not  a  pleasant  yarn  to 
read  before  going  to  bed." — Detroit  Times. 

"A  masterpiece  of  horror,  yet,  strange  to  say,  not  repellent." 
—Salt  Lake  City  Herald-Republican. 

"  The  horrible  is  exploited  with  such  skill  as  will  not  suffer  by 
comparison  with  that  manifested  in  some  of  the  short  stories 
that  Poe  left  to  be  regarded  always  as  masterpieces  of  their 
kind  ....  so  well  done  that  one  cannot  condemn  it  because 
of  the  theme  ....  one  is  compelled  to  give  praise  for  the 
treatment. " — A  Ibany  Evening  Journal. 

"There  is  much  of  unusual  merit,  and  more  of  prophecy  in 
the  present  work  of  Mr.  Robbins." — Columbus  Dispatch. 

"Gives  the  reader  the  shivers  while  admiring  the  ability  of 
the  author."— Duluth  Herald. 

"Nervous  people,  if  they  are  to  read  it  at  all,  better  read  it 
right  after  breakfast,  and  certainly  not  in  any  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  hours  previous  to  going  to  bed." — Utica  Daily  Press. 

000 

You  can  buy  this  at  any  bookstore  or  direct  from  us. 
Price,  $1.00,  postpaid. 

J.  S.  OQILVIE  PUBLISHING  COflPANY, 

57  Rose  Street,  New  York. 


A    BOOK    FOR    CHESS    LOVERS 

Chess  lovers  will  be  glad  to  know  that  we  now 
have  ready  in  book  form  one  of  the  latest  and  best 
works  on  Chess  by  the  world's  most  famous  chess 
player  EMANUEL  LASKER. 


Common  Sense  in 
Chess 

By  Cmanuel  Lasker 

is  the  title  of  the  book.  It  contains  an  abstract  of 
the  twelve  lectures  which  the  author  gave  before  an 
audience  of  chess  players  in  London,  England.  It 
gives  the  various  openings  and  methods  of  play  as 
used  by  him,  with  examples  of  same  FULLY  ILLUS 
TRATED,  all  duly  set  forth  as  the  result  of  the  author's 
long  and  varied  experience. 

Invaluable  to  those  who  desire  to  attain  profU 
ciency  in  chess,  the  greatest  of  games,  the  one  game 
which  demands  the  greatest  reasoning  and  thought. 

The  book  contains  140  pages,  fully  illustrated, 
neatly  bound  in  cloth. 

SENT  BY  MAIL,  POSTPAID,  FOR  75  CENTS. 

J.  S.  OGILVIE   PUBLISHING  COHPANY 
57  Rose  Street,  New  York 


A  Book  You  Should  Read! 


WHY    I    AM 

WHAT   I    AM. 


WHY  I  AM  A  BAPTIST.    By  Rev.  R.  S.  MacArthur,  D.D. 
WHY  I  AM  A  PRESBYTERIAN.    By  Rev.  Charles  Seymour 

Robinson,  D.D. 

WHY  I  AM  A  METHODIST.    By  Rev.  G.  H.  McGrew. 
WHY  I    AM    AN    EPISCOPALIAN.     By  Rev.  William  R. 

Huntington,  D.  D. 

WHY  I  AM  A  CATHOLIC.    By  Rev.  Walter  Elliott,  C.S.P. 
WHY  I  AM  A  CONGREGATIONALISM     By  Rev.  Lyman 

Abbott,  D.D. 

WHY  I  AM  A  UNIVERSALIST.    By  Rev.  Charles  H.  Eaton. 
WHY  I  AM  A  NEW-CHURCHMAN.    By  Rev.  S.  S.  Seward. 
WHY  I  AM  A  UNITARIAN.    By  Rev.  John  White  Chadwick. 
WHY  I  AM  A  JEW.    By  Rev.  Dr.  Gustav  Gottheil. 
WHY  I  AM  A  LUTHERAN.     By  Rev.  G.  F.  Krotel,  D.D. 
WHY  I  AM  A  FRIEND.    By  John  J.  Cornell. 
WHY  I  AM  A  DISCIPLE.    By  Rev.  B.  B.  Tyler. 
WHY  I  AM  A  SEVENTH -DAY  BAPTIST.      By  Rev.  A. 

H.  Lewis. 
CRUMBLING  CREEDS.    By  Col.  Robert  G.  Ingersoll. 


THE  •« CHRISTIAN  UNION"  SAYS  OF  IT: 

In  Why  I  Am  What  I  Am  fourteen  representatives  of  different  religious  denom- 
taationa  give  the  reasons  for  their  peculiar  faith.  The  representative  men  have  been 
well  chosen ;  and  the  denominations  include  the  Roman  Catholic  at  one  extreme  and 
the  Jew  at  the  other.  We  know  of  no  volume  which  in  so  compact  a  form  affords  so 
good  material  for  a  study  of  denominational  peculiarities,  their  nature  and  the 
reasons  for  them. 

12mo,  160  pages,  paper  ocver.  Price,  25  cents.  Hailed  to  any  address, 
postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price.  Address, 

J.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
57  Rose  Street.  ...         New  York. 


"MAN  IN  THE  STREET"  STORIES, 

From  "The  New  York  Times." 

A2mo.  32O  pages.  Cloth  Bound,  $  1  OO,  With  <m  in* 
troduction  by  Chauncey  M.  Depew,  who  says  of  themt 

"This  collection  of  stories  is  my  re 
fresher  every  Sunday  after  the  worry 
and  work  of  the  week.  I  know  of  no  ef 
fort  which  has  been  so  successful  in  col»( 
lecting  real  anecdotes  portraying  the 
humorous  side  of  life  as  this  volume." 

It  is  prepared  with  a  complete  index 
which  increases  its  value  very  much. 

Head  what  reviewers  all  over  the 
country  say  of  the  book : 

"It  is  i  great  collection,  and  the  reading 
of  it  is  a  treat."— SALT  LAKE  TBIBUNB. 

"The  kind  of  a  book  we  call  a  'capital 
thing.'  Its  humor  is  of  the  best  flavor."— 
MINI 


THEMANINTHESTREEf 
STORIES 

from  TfieMicyork  Tunes 


W/tA  /ntroduct/on  by 

CHALJNCEY  M.DEPEW 


N2APOLIS  TIMES. 

"  Is  well  worth  the  consideration  of  all."— 
PEOVIDENCB  JOUBNAL, 

"  Warranted  to  amuse. "—BOSTON  JOUBNAL. 

"  Probably  no  book  of  its  kind  excells  this  one."— DETBOIT  FREE  PBESS. 

"  The  anecdotes  are  exceptionally  entertaining,  full  of  humor,  wit  and 
Wisdom,  and  may  be  read  with  genuine  pleasure."— ST.  Louis  EEPUBLIO. 
•  "Fall  of  good  things/'— PHILADELPHIA  INQUIBEB. 

**  Senator  Depew  eavs  a  true  thing  in  commending  the  character  and 
quality  of  the  book."— CLEVELAND  LEADER. 

•*  We  cannot  deny  its  attainment  of  success."— BALTIMOBB  Suw. 

**  A  collection  of  the  utmost  use  for  those  who  wish  to  use  bright  jest 
and  modern  anecdote."— CHICAGO  DAILY  NEWS. 

*'  Every  after-dinner  speaker  rhould  be  thankful  for  the  publication 
In  book  form  of  the  '  Man  in  the  Street  Stories.' "— SPEINGFIELD  SUNDAY 
REPUBLICAN. 

"  They  -will  make  the  reader  laugh."— BUFFALO  EXPBESS. 

"  This  work  is  useful  in  more  ways  than  one."— RICHMOND  DISPATOB. 

"*  Will  be  useful  to  all  who  are  in  quest  of  stories  to  illustrate  points 
In  dinner  table  exploits."— BEOOKLYN  EAGLE. 

44  The  story  teller  need  never  run  short  as  long  as  he  has  this  volume 
to  consult."— PHILADELPHIA  PBESS. 

M  Constitute  a  very  mine  of  material  for  both  the  political  campaign 
and  the  social  circle.  Always  interesting."— PITTSBUBG  INDEX- APPEAL. 

"  The  average  merit  of  these  stories  is  so  high,  that  the  prize  winning 
stories  are  little,  if  any,  better  than  the  others."— CHICAGO  INTEB-OCEAH. 
L      "  Indispensable  to  a  properly  selected  library."— ST.  PAUL  GLOBB. 

Sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  to  any  address  upon  receipt  of 
price,  75  cents.    Address  all  orders  to 

J.  S.   OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
P.  0.  Box  767.  57  ROSE  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


Do  You  Enjoy 

A  Good  Story  of  the  Western  Plains? 
If  So,  Don't  Fail  to  Read 

The  Pride  of  the  Rancho, 

By  HENRY  E.  SMITH. 

12mo,    192  Pages.     Price,  Paper  Bound, 
2S    Cents;  Sound  in    Cloth,  $1.00. 


The  story  is  founded  upon  his  play  of  the  same 
name. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  West,  where  two  college 
men  have  gone  in  quest  of  health,  and  found  it.  It 
shows  two  manly,  unselfish  characters,  such  as  the 
youth  of  the  present  day  might  well  emulate. 

It  is  full  of  the  air,  the  love,  and  the  excitement 
of  the  plains.  The  plot  is  fascinating  and  the  love 
story  charming. 

A  pretty  romance  is  woven  into  the  narrative, 
portraying  the  personal  charms  and  clever  attractive 
ness  of  the  Western  girl,  even  though  the  daughter 
\of  a  ranchman.  It  carries  a  good  moral  throughout 
land  is  eminently  attractive  to  both  young  and  old. 

The  book  contains  192  pages,  with  a  frontispiece 
illustration.  Price,  paper  bound,  25  cents;  bound  in 
cloth,  $1.00.  For  sale  by  all  booksellers  and  news 
dealers,  or  sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

J.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
P.  0.  Box  767.  57  ROSE  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  SOCIABLE  GHOST. 

This  is  a  very  funny  book,  giving  tha  adventnref 
of  a  reporter  who  was  invited  by  the  sociable  ghost 
to  a  grand  banquet,  ball,  and  convention  under  the 
ground  of  Old  Trinity  Churchyard.  A  true  tale  of  the 
things  he  saw  and  did  not  see  while  he  was  not  thera 

Written  down  by  OLIVE  HARPER  and  ANOTHER. 

12mo.     235  Pages.     Bound  in  Cloth.     With  14  Full-Pagc 
Illustrations  by  Thomas  Mcllvaine  and  A.  W.  Schwartz. 

Gruesome  in  spite  of  its  playful  humor,  as  any  tale  dealing 
exclusively  with  skeletons  is  bound  to  be,  this  story  in  which 
a  New  York  reporter  spends  an  evening  with  the  illustrious 
dead  in  Trinity  churchyard,  sets  the  reader  to  thinking  as 
well  as  laughing.  Instead  of  burlesquing  the  departed  dead, 
the  author  intends  to  set  up  a  few  offenses  for  which  mortals 
will  be  punished  in  the  hereafter,  and  at  the  same  time  she 
protests  against  the  removal  of  corpses  from  one  cemetery 
to  another  to  afford  space  for  the  tramp  of  onward  civiliza 
tion. 

The  sociable  ghost,  who  was  formerly  a  society  leader  in 
the  metropolis,  takes  the  curious  reporter  into  the  Banquet* 
ing  hall  of  the  dead  elite,  where  ghosts,  not  sufficiently  puri 
fied  in  soul  to  go  free  from  the  hindrance  of  bones  and 
burdened  with  their  mundane  characteristics,  dance,  gor 
mandize,  simper  and  gossip  as  they  did  during  life,  waiting 
for  the  passports  the  Master  promises  to  give  when  the  taint 
of  earthly  vices  and  frivolities  have  been  purged.  Particu 
larly  amusing  is  the  passage  in  which  some  sinner  is  com 
pelled  to  teach  five  ladies  of  the  "  400  "  how  to  play  poker,  as 
ffell  as  the  place  where  the  guests  are  compelled  to  repeat 
tor  the  edification  and  amusement  of  each  other  the  terrible 
epitaphs  that  disfigure  their  tombstones. 

This  book  is  for  sale  by  all  dealers  everywhere, 
or  it  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  on  receipt  oi 
price,  $1.00.  Address  all  orders  to 

J.  8.  OaiLVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

£7  &OSE  8TBUX,  HEW  ?Q1& 


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